Find Your Voice
by pluscuamperfecto
Summary: Erin goes looking for rock bottom. Jay goes looking for Erin.
1. Chapter 1

Hi everyone! This story originated from a couple of tweets from Derek Haas: when asked what was next for Erin, he said "rock bottom," and when asked what was next for Linstead, he said "he's not going to give up on her." This is how I interpreted those tweets!

Just a warning: this story is very, very dark. There is also a brief, and not super graphic but possibly somewhat disturbing, sexual assault scene.

 _And when we are drowning in the noise, I'm gonna stop to find your voice…_

Jay picks up an extra caramel latte on his way into work, a peace offering. He hadn't even talked to her last night, after they'd escorted the two crooked cops out of her apartment. He'd left her there, alone, in her crime scene of an apartment, after promising her that he was looking out for her. He'd let the blow to his ego- _why was she willing to talk to some loser but not to him?_ -cloud his judgment, and he'd walked out the door without so much as a backwards glance.

He feels bad about that now. He knows she didn't do it to hurt him. He also knows, deep down, that that guy isn't anyone. He knows Erin is lost, and in pain, and if he really loves her-and he does-he needs to step up.

So he brings her her favorite coffee, promises himself that today they're going to talk, really talk, and he's not going to let her put him off with vague excuses or false reassurances. He's going to fix this. Fix her. Because, truth be told-he's starting to get a little bit scared.

And when the morning passes and Erin doesn't show up, he starts to get just a little bit more scared. Anxiety churns in his stomach, and his own coffee tastes bitter. Every time he hears a noise from the stairs, he startles-and every time, it isn't her. Her caramel latte grows cold on his desk.

Around 11:00, Antonio catches him staring at her desk. "I think Voight went to talk to her," he says, and Jay nods mutely. "Probably just a little shaken up after last night." Jay nods again, although he knows- _knows_ -that last night isn't the problem. If anything, it was just the final straw.

He thinks of the agony in Erin's eyes, of the emptiness on her face as he tried to reason with her in the garage, before those guys even went after her.

At noon, he tries her cell. It goes straight to voicemail, so he waits a few minutes-maybe she's in an elevator, or a tunnel-and tries again, with the same result. He bounces his leg up and down as he types out a text: _I'm sorry I left last night. Are you okay?_

When she doesn't respond in half an hour, he tries again: _Erin, please call me. I'm worried._

At 1:00, boots clomp up the stairs, and Jay nearly jumps out of his chair. Voight stalks across the bullpen, looking more upset than Halstead has ever seen him, and his heart starts pounding. "Halstead!" Voight barks, as he strides to his office.

Jay follows him, legs shaking, and closes the door. "What happened?" he manages, already knowing that it's bad.

Voight collapses into his desk chair, suddenly looking very, very old. Jay swallows hard, and leans against the wall for support. Voight holds up a badge, and Jay is fairly certain his heart stops. "I guess she's-she's in a worse place than I realized," his boss says, and he sounds so tired and sad.

"Did you suspend her?" Jay says, although he already knows the answer.

"She quit," Voight says, his voice even more gravelly than normal. "She's with her mother, and she…" he sighs, rubbing his forehead. "Has she been talking to you?" he asks desperately. "At all?"

Jay shakes his head, horror twisting in his gut. Erin quit. She _quit_. He digs his nails into his palm, relishing the pain, because he deserves it. He'd failed to have her back.

"She went to her mother," Voight says, and he sounds destroyed. "She chose her mother and I couldn't stop her." He shakes his head, then looks up at Jay, his eyes red-rimmed. "I yelled at her," he says incredulously, and he sounds so disappointed in himself. "I should have given her a hug."

"I should have too," Jay says, almost to himself. "I just walked out last night. She was all alone, and she wasn't trying to hurt me, and I just…"

They sit in silence for a few minutes, both wallowing in guilt. Finally, Jay speaks again. "What happened this morning?"

Voight nods, slowly. "She was at Bunny's bar," he says. "Drinking. And she looked-I haven't seen her like that since she was a kid. I tried to get her to come with me, but...something was wrong, and I ignored it. I just thought...I didn't pay attention. Told her every cop goes through a bad patch."

"What did she say?" Jay says, and he realizes he's almost holding his breath.

"She said she was bad news, and she couldn't get away from it," Voight says. "She said that she hurts everyone she loves." Jay squeezes his eyes shut, suppressing a moan. He thinks of the look on her face last night-she'd known she'd hurt him, and that had hurt her. _And he'd walked out the door_. "She'd been hanging out with Bunny, and Bunny…"

Jay has the sudden, heartstopping thought that something horrible is going to happen. "Where is she now?"

"I left her at the bar," Voight says. "I wasn't going to be able to get through to her, not with Bunny there." He sighs, rubbing his forehead. "I think she needs to hit rock bottom before-"

"No," Jay says. "No, she's going to hurt herself. Sarge, we can't just leave her there."

"No," Voight says firmly. "No, she wouldn't do that. I learned with Justin, I have to let her make her own mistakes."

"No, Sarge," Jay says urgently. "She's going to hurt herself. She's trying to get herself killed. Now she doesn't have anything at all. She was holding it together for work, now she's just gonna-"

"Erin wouldn't do that!" Voight says.

"She's not herself," Jay says, and suddenly he can't sit in this office anymore. He flings the door open, practically running towards his desk for his coat. "I'm going to find her."

He takes off for the stairs without waiting for another word.

When Voight walks out the door and out of her life, Erin swallows the rest of her beer in one gulp and tries not to cry. The oxy she took this morning-or last night, maybe? She didn't sleep at all, so it's hard to tell-is wearing off, as is the blissful numbness it provided, and she has to fight to shove down the emotions that threaten to engulf her. This is the right thing to do. This is what she deserves.

Hank will be upset, but he'll see that it's for the best. She hopes he tells Jay, because she can't face doing it herself.

Her mother brings her another beer and a shot of whiskey, kisses her on the head. "Sweetheart, you look exhausted," she says cheerfully. "Why don't you go get some rest?"

Erin doesn't reply. She just downs the shot, drinks her beer quietly, then stands up and walks out the door without saying good-bye.

It's a long walk home, but when she imagines the expression on Hank's face as she'd handed him her badge-she'd been too weak to even look at him-she knows it's exactly what she deserves.

Her apartment is still a crime scene, she realizes when she gets there. There's blood all over the floor, and shattered glass, and a bullet in the wall, and she can't stand to stay there for one more second.

She pulls on a coat and heads out the door. Her hands are shaking so badly she can barely manage to lock it. She jams them in her pockets, fingers caressing the prescription bottle she finds in there. It's still almost full. _Good_.

She wanders until she can't move anymore, until her legs give out, and she's surprised-but not-to find herself in Millennium Park, in the same seat where she'd waited to meet Greg Yates on a bitter cold Chicago winter night.

It seems like a lifetime ago, and she struggles to connect the person she was then to the shell she is now. Images assault her mind, of Nadia, happy and healthy and smiling as she showed Erin her test scores, of Jay, a mischievous grin making his eyes sparkle as his hands slid under her top, of Voight telling her how proud he was as she discussed the task force offer with him.

She fights for breath as the images morph, as Nadia's delighted face becomes lifeless eyes staring unseeing at a slate grey New York sky, as Jay's smile slides into the hurt in his eyes as he takes in the scene in her apartment, as Voight's pride transforms into disappointment and anger.

She sees Landon, wounded on her floor, begging for his life while she stood by and did nothing. She hears Voight: _I've got this situation with the Commander, and I've gotta be worried about you?_ Voight tried so hard for her, but he was wrong, and she doesn't deserve what he did for her. She doesn't deserve the life she has, doesn't deserve the chances she was given. She's poison, and everything she touches is destroyed.

And she needs to get out, she needs to get away before she hurts anyone else she loves. She needs to disappear before she ruins Jay's life, before Voight risks his career trying to cover for her yet again. They'll be better off. It's what needs to happen.

She closes her eyes, and sees Jay's face in the garage the previous night. _I'm looking out for you_ , he'd said, and for the first time all day, tears flood her vision. She thinks back to the last night she'd spent with him, in her bed, wrapped in his arms. Nadia had been just down the hall, studying, and Jay had held her tightly and kissed her hair and set her nerve endings on fire with his fingers. She thinks maybe that's the last time she felt safe and happy.

It's better, she reassures herself. It's better for him to not have to look out for her. He'll realize eventually, she knows-realize that she would have taken him down with her, and he'll be grateful that she walked away.

She couldn't live with herself if she hurt Jay.

But now she can't stop thinking about him. Memories assault her, random snippets of conversation ringing in her ears. _And yeah, I meant you and me_ , she hears his voice say, and she can feel his fingers wrapped around her own, grounding her. _I don't want to talk at all_ , her memory says, as his phantom lips touch hers, warm and loving and so unlike Landon's.

She whimpers, digging in her pocket for the bottle of oxy. She pops it open, hands trembling violently, and swallows a few pills dry. Maybe more than she should.

She slides off the seat and curls up in a ball on the ground, wrapping her coat tightly around herself and waiting for the pills to take effect, for the pain to ease. She hasn't slept on the street since Voight took her in-the memories of doing so as a child and a teenager are so traumatic that she's never even been able to bring herself to go camping.

But now, this is exactly what she deserves.

It's almost 2:00 in the morning when Jay finally gives up for the night. Defeated, he finds himself heading for Voight's place instead of his own.

His boss is still awake, as he expected. "Nothing?" Voight says, opening the door wider to let him in. Hank's face is a mixture of guilt and pain and worry.

Jay shakes his head, his whole body still jittering with anxiety. "I checked her mother's bar-Bunny hasn't seen her and suggested I give Erin some space." Jay clenches his fists at the memory. "I checked three other bars I know she likes. I looked at Molly's, but Hermann said she hadn't been there. She's not at home-I stopped there three times, including just now. I tried a couple of her friends, and none of them had seen her in months. I checked the river walk, I checked Navy Pier, I checked her gym...I don't know what else to do."

Voight sighs, rubbing his forehead. "I came home right after you left in case she came here, but…" he shakes his head. "And Platt was at the district till midnight. Said she never showed."

"Her phone is on," Jay says. "It's not going straight to voicemail. I'm going to have Mouse trace it in the morning."

Voight nods, lowering himself onto the couch. He suddenly looks very, very old. "Thanks, Jay," he says distractedly.

"Sarge," Jay says suddenly. "I love her. I just wanted you to know that."

Voight nods again, a ghost of a smile gracing his face.

"I know you don't want that," Jay barrels on. "And we didn't mean for it to happen-Erin certainly didn't mean for it to happen, and we weren't trying to disrespect you or break your rules. I mean, you mean everything to Erin, and she broke up with me for you. But I love her. I'm in love with her and I'd do anything for her, and if that means I'm out of intelligence, then that's fine."

"Jay!" Voight cuts him off. "It's okay. I just-I just want her to be happy," he says sadly.

Jay deflates somewhat, thinking of how decidedly unhappy Erin is right now. "Yeah," he whispers.

"She's gonna need you," Voight says. "Whatever she's doing now, what she's going through-she's going to need you. And it's not going to be easy."

"I mean it," Jay says, his voice unwavering. "I'd do anything for her."

"Okay," Voight says softly. "Have a seat," he adds, gesturing towards the armchair adjacent to the couch.

It's the middle of the night, but Jay does. Worry is running rampant through his veins, but sitting here, with his boss, with Erin's father, somehow makes him feel just a little bit less alone.

The sky is hazy when Erin finally wakes up-or regains consciousness, more like. Her head is aching, an intense pressure behind her temples. The faint light from the pre-dawn sky is so painful it makes her press her arm across her face, desperate to black-out even the slightest hint of color. She's cold and her skin is clammy, and she pulls her jacket a little tighter around herself.

Groaning, she digs her hand into her pocket to find her phone. It's 5:30 in the morning, but she should probably get out of here if she doesn't want to be arrested for vagrancy or loitering. She has 27 missed calls from Jay, six from Voight, two from Olinsky, and one from Antonio. There's even one from Justin. There are too many text messages to read, and she flicks through them briefly. They're all from Jay, and she feels a little stab of pain in her chest.

She pulls herself up onto a seat and hunches over, fighting not to throw up-although, really, what difference would it make? Her mouth is dry and cottony, and her hands are shaking so violently it's hard to hold onto the phone. She thinks of when Nadia called her for help, of the morning they sat across from each other in a shitty diner and Nadia poured half a jar of sugar into her coffee and then struggled to hold it between her palms. She turns the phone off, shoves her hands in her pockets, clenches her body as shivers rock through her.

She's not quite sure what to do now. She has no place to be, no one to see, nothing she needs to do. She considers going back to her apartment, then decides she can't, not yet. She tries to remember what her mother had said yesterday-very little had penetrated the drug and alcohol induced haze of her mind, but she vaguely remembers something about figuring things out. Deciding what she really wanted.

What Erin really wants is to rewind time. Given that that's not an option, she settles for finding a slightly cleaner place to get some sleep.

No one is home when she arrives at her mother's house, and she's thankful for that. She digs the extra key out from under the flowerpot and lets herself in. She showers, puts on some of Bunny's clothes, and then finds the little boys' room she slept in last week. She closes the blinds, locks the door, dry swallows two oxy and then a third, and curls into a ball on the bottom bunk, waiting for blissful oblivion.

Jay jolts awake to the sounds of coffee beans being ground. For a heartstopping second, he can't remember where he is or how he got there. He surveys his surroundings.

Voight's living room. He crashed on the couch. After he failed miserably at finding Erin. Right.

"Morning," his boss says, as Jay tries to rub the weariness out of his eyes.

"Thanks," Jay grunts in reply, as Voight hands him a cup of coffee. "Time's it?"

"Seven," Voight says. He's already dressed and ready to go. "I tried calling her. Looks like she turned the phone off."

"Or it died," Jay says. He sets his mug on the nearby coffee table, feeling suddenly nauseous with anxiety.

"We'll find her," Voight says, in a tone that leaves no choice but to trust him. "She's going to be okay."

"How do you know?" Jay asks wearily, feeling like a little boy.

"Come on," Voight says. "Let's head over to Erin's place, see if she's come back."

Jay downs the remainder of his coffee and heads to the bathroom. He needs a minute to pull himself together, to analyze his feelings.

It's been less than 24 hours since Voight has seen her, and he knows she probably doesn't realize that they're looking for her. That she isn't hiding intentionally. Still, he's panicked. He'd been worried for weeks, ever since Nadia died, but he thinks the attempt on her life may have been the final straw. She'd barely been holding it together before that.

Erin's told him very little about her past, about the details of what she'd been through and what she'd done and how she'd survived. But a few facts have slipped out, and from those, he can extrapolate and imagine. And so he knows that when Erin falls, she falls hard and far and fast. He knows that Erin's rabbit hole is deep and painful and dangerous.

And all he can do is pray that they find her in time.

Erin wakes up alone. The house is silent and empty, and her head pounds in a familiar way. She feels jittery and anxious, but the numbness has worn off, and the pain is overpowering.

Tears well up in her eyes, unbidden. She hasn't cried-really, seriously _cried_ -since they found Nadia's naked, battered body, and the sudden wave of emotion takes her by surprise. She'd done a good job of drowning it, in work and sex and alcohol and narcotics. But now she's alone. There's no work and no one to fuck her and the substances she's taken have worn off. And there's nothing to dull the sharp edges of the pain in her chest, and it rips through her like a bullet.

"No!" she wails, pressing her face into the pinstriped pillow case, as if cutting off oxygen will somehow make the agony go away. "No!" the sound is primal, inhuman, and her ears don't recognize it as coming from her. She curls up into the tightest ball she can, digging her nails into her palms and letting the pain wash over her in great, insurmountable waves. She lets herself drown in it.

She gasps for air, writhing on the bed. She stumbles into the bathroom to vomit, her whole body convulsing as she empties the meager contents of her stomach into the toilet. The tears don't stop, and she lies on the bathroom floor convulsing as the pain continues to stab through her.

Her heart is literally breaking, she thinks.

After minutes or hours or maybe days, she decides she can't handle this anymore. She crawls back into the bedroom, retrieves the bottle of oxy from her coat pocket. She takes three, and debates taking more. She debates ending this all, right now, once and for all, but some primitive survival instinct takes over and she puts the bottle back in her pocket.

It doesn't work as quickly this time-her body is already becoming accustomed to the narcotics-and she can't wait. She drags herself to the kitchen, searching for alcohol. If she does a few shots of whiskey, it should knock her out, should stop this horror for at least a few minutes.

She can't find any-is there no alcohol in this house?-and instead her eyes stumble on a block of knives. And suddenly everything stops.

She's still taking great gasping lungfuls of air, but her entire body has stopped trembling. In a trance, her feet move towards the kitchen counter. Her hands reach for a knife of their own volition, and before she can even think about it, she's pressing the blade to the inside of her wrist. Not hard, just enough to break the skin. Blood bubbles up along the line of the blade, and suddenly the tightness in her chest releases, just slightly.

She lifts the blade up, then slices it across the tender skin, harder this time, deeper. She watches, detached and fascinated, as the blood slides down her arm, soaking into the gray shirt she's wearing.

Her breathing calms and slows, and she digs the blade in one more time, longer and deeper.

She takes a deep, cleansing breath. Okay. She can do this. She washes the knife and replaces it in the wooden block, then wipes the blood off the counter and the floor. She walks into the bathroom, rummages through the cabinets for some gauze, and carefully wraps her wrist. Her hands feel steadier now, and the stabbing pain in her chest has receded to a dull ache. She can handle this.

She changes her shirt-another one of Bunny's-then pulls her coat on, and heads out into the encroaching night.

Voight doesn't even suggest going into the district. He calls Olinsky, asks him to hold down the fort, and they head for Erin's apartment.

Voight knocks several times before digging a spare key out of his pocket and unlocking the door. The apartment looks exactly as it did when Jay left it two nights ago-blood and broken glass and scattered groceries. Jay cringes at the sight.

"Erin?" Voight calls. He heads for her bedroom, while Jay stands motionless in the living room. He left her here to deal with this alone. He promised to have her back always, and the second she really needed him, he bailed.

His eyes catch on the photos of her and Nadia on the refrigerator. Erin is smiling in all of them, a grin that he hasn't seen on her in months. She looks so happy. He wonders if he'll ever see that look on her face again.

Voight has been quiet for a while, so Jay heads for Erin's bedroom. She isn't there, as he expected. The bed is unmade and messy, and there's an ashtray filled with cigarettes on one bedside table. It's not Erin's side of the bed, and Jay's heart clenches at the thought of another man being in it. A man who, apparently, smokes.

Voight is standing, unmoving, staring at Erin's own nightstand. Jay follows his gaze-there's an empty bottle of vodka and an empty orange prescription bottle. "I shouldn't have left her," Voight says hoarsely. "I knew she was using, and I knew...I shouldn't have walked out yesterday."

"Using?" Jay says, his voice small and thin.

Voight turns to Jay somewhat incredulously. "Has Erin told you anything?" he asks.

Jay shakes his head and shrugs. "Just-a little about her mom, I guess. And about high school. St. Ignatius."

Jay expects Voight to be angry, but instead he just looks sad. "I thought she would have told you," he says, almost to himself, then he sighs. "Erin did not have it easy growing up," he says. Jay nods-that part he knows. "And she had no one. No way to let it out, so she wasn't used to talking about her feelings. Dealing with pain. When she was fifteen, she got involved with Charlie. He got her hooked on heroin."

"Heroin," Jay repeats weakly.

"She told me the other night that she couldn't take the post-shooting drug test, because she'd fail," Voight says. "And she lied-she made up a story about someone slipping something in her drink, and I accused her of sounding like her mother." He shakes his head, furious at himself. "She needed help, she was asking for help, and I-"

"Sarge," Jay tries gently. "We're gonna find her. And she's going to be okay." He doesn't feel that confident in what he's saying, but he's never seen his boss like this, and he feels the need to offer some sort of comfort.

"Kid's been abandoned her whole life," Voight says bitterly. "I was the one person who was supposed to be there for her." That hurts a little, because Jay wants to be there for her too, but he lets it go.

"You still are," Jay says. "So let's find her.

Erin doesn't go back to her mother's bar. Despite the gauze on her arm, her shirt is all bloody, and she thinks that even Bunny would likely notice that. She's not totally sure-Bunny once failed to notice when, as a thirteen-year-old, she came home with two black eyes and a broken rib-but she isn't in the mood to find out.

Instead, she walks for a while and finds a dark, quiet bar. One where she can be alone, where she doesn't know anybody. If she can get drunk enough, she might be able to go back to her apartment tonight.

Or, she might be able to find someone to take her back to his.

She downs her first drink in one gulp, then forces herself to sip the second a little slower. Not that it matters. There's nowhere she needs to be tomorrow, no one who will be hurt by her hangover or her lack of focus. Still. She has just enough self-preservation left to know that she should probably take it just a little bit easy tonight.

It's easy enough to pick up a guy. It always is. Midway through her third drink, the bartender sets another in front of her. "From the gentleman in the corner," he says, gesturing towards a man at the far end of the bar. He's hot, his muscular arms bulging through his t-shirt, and his smoldering eyes are undressing her. He catches her gaze, and lets a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face.

She studies him for a moment, then finishes her drink. She slams it on the bar, then swallows the shot he bought her in one gulp before sliding off her barstool and walking towards him.

He doesn't say anything as she approaches, just holds her gaze. She stops in front of him, studying him for a long moment. His eyes slide down her body, stopping at her chest, her legs, before moving back up to her face. "Let's get out of here," she rasps.

He follows her out of the bar without a word.

Evening is falling, and there's still no sign of Erin. Jay feels sick with worry. The whole team is on it, as if they're working a case. Her phone is still off, but Mouse is monitoring it, in case she turns it back on. Atwater is keeping an eye on her credit cards, and the rest of the team has been canvassing, searching for anywhere she might go. He doesn't think she's deliberately hiding from them, isn't sure why she would-but he wishes she'd give him sort of sign that she's okay. That she's alive.

Voight has grown increasingly quiet throughout the day. As they pull up in front of yet another bar, Jay steals an anxious glance at his boss. Losing Nadia had been hard on Voight. He's not sure his Sergeant could handle it if anything happened to Erin.

The bar is mostly empty, and Jay sighs in disappointment and approaches the bartender. "What can I get you?" the potbellied man asks, wiping his hands on a dirty towel.

Jay flashes his badge, then pulls out his phone. "We're looking for a woman. Brown hair, thirty, about 5'5"." He pulls up a photo and shows it to the bartender. "Has she been in here in the last few days?"

The bartender snorts. "Yeah. You just missed her. She in some kind of trouble?"

Relief and worry flood Jay's veins almost simultaneously. "No, not at all, we just need to find her. When did she leave?"

"Maybe 45 minutes ago," the guy says with a shrug. "She left with some guy."

Jay flinches, but forces himself to remain calm. "Okay. Is there anything else you can tell me? Did you see which direction they went?"

"Nope, but she was pretty drunk. And he was a pretty shady looking character, if you ask me."

Jay swallows hard. "Had you seen him here before?" The bartender shakes his head. "Can you describe him for me?"

Voight is still waiting outside the bar when he emerges, and Jay chooses his words carefully.

When Erin was 13, her mother disappeared. This wasn't altogether unusual-from the time Erin could remember, her mother had checked out of her life for days or even weeks on end. But this time, months passed, and Bunny never returned. Summer faded into fall, and the days turned colder. Teddy went to live with his dad-or so Erin thought, but Erin had nowhere to go. It never occurred to her to tell a teacher or a neighbor. Looking back, she isn't even sure why.

And so she worked the streets. It was pretty easy to find creepy scumbags who'd pay her a hundred bucks for a blow job or an hour in a hotel room. The fact that she had to close her eyes and force her mind far away didn't matter-if she wanted to eat, it was what she needed to do.

But it isn't something she's been able to forget. And so there are things that Erin has avoided, ever since she was 15 and came to live with Voight. Specifically, rough sex. It's not something she's ever spoken about with anyone, certainly not with any of her bedmates. If Kelly or Jay had noticed, they'd never said anything.

But her current partner, whose name she never bothered to get-he seems to like rough sex. When they reach his apartment, he shoves her on the bed, face down. Before she can react, he's on top of her, biting hard on her neck and manhandling her breasts over her top. She panics and tries to shove him off, but he digs a knee into her back. "Mmm, your ass," he murmurs in her ear, sliding his hand between her body and the mattress and unbuttoning her jeans. He works the zipper down, then shoves his fingers into her underwear and roughly inside of her. "You ready?" he grunts. His other hand is pushing down his own jeans.

"Stop," Erin begs. She can barely breathe, can barely move. She tries to push herself up on her elbows, tries to roll over, but his weight is pressing her into the mattress. "Get off me!" she yelps, but her voice lacks volume and strength, and he doesn't even seem to hear her.

"Oh, yeah," he breathes in her ear. His grimy fingers shove her underwear aside, and suddenly, he's inside her. Pain ripples through her abdomen and she moans, pressing her face into the mattress and closing her eyes tightly. He thrusts into her, hard, and she chokes back a moan.

She falls back on a coping mechanism she hasn't used in 15 years. She pictures the Caribbean, a beautiful island with an empty white sand beach. She's never been to the Caribbean, barely even ever been to a real beach, but she'd seen a billboard for an island-Anguilla, she believes-when she was a little girl, and it had always stuck with her as a place of peace. Calm. Safety.

So she squeezes her eyes shut and clutches the comforter between her fists to have something to hold onto and focuses on that image of a sandy beach, crystal clear water, and the breeze in her hair.

Jay bounces his leg up and down as Voight pulls into his driveway. They've spent hours searching the neighborhood around the bar, driving up and down streets and searching parks and alleyways. There's been no sign of her, and Jay is nauseous with worry.

Voight kills the engine, but neither of them makes an effort to get out of the car.

"We're going to find her," Voight says finally, as if he needs to convince himself. "Erin's a fighter. She can take care of herself."

"What if someone hurts her?" Jay says, his throat as tight as a pinhole. "She's drunk, she's grieving, what if she went home with the wrong person?"

Voight nods, and Jay knows he's thinking the same thing. "She's gonna be okay," he says again.

"What if she hurts herself?" Jay whispers.

"Erin wouldn't do that," Voight says firmly, but Jay thinks he might be trying to convince himself of that. "She made it through her childhood. Through more than you can imagine. She can make it through this."

Jay isn't so sure. But he nods, and digs his own car keys out of his pocket. "I'm going to head over to her apartment," he says. "She's gotta come home eventually, right?"

"Good idea," Voight says. "I'll stay here in case she comes here. Call me if anything happens."

Jay gets out of the car and heads for his own. His hands are shaking as he jams the key into the ignition.

They have to find her.

When the guy finally climaxes, slides off her, and heads into the bathroom, Erin pulls up her pants and flees the apartment. She's shaking so badly she can't manage to close the button on her jeans. She decides not to worry about it.

The night is cold and moonless, and she clutches her coat tighter around herself. She feels sick, and she stops to vomit into the gutter, her stomach heaving as it expels the alcohol she's ingested today-she can't remember if she had any food. She's on her hands and knees on the curb, retching and gasping for air. A well-dressed couple stares at her disgustedly, then continues on their way past her. She's in a nice neighborhood, she realizes.

She's in _her_ neighborhood.

She manages to climb back to her feet, wobbling unsteadily. She stumbles down the street, holding onto the wall for balance, her whole body shaking violently. There are tears streaming down her cheeks, and she can't seem to stop them. No one pays her any attention, and she's grateful.

She makes it to the door of her building, digs her keys out of her pocket. It takes her several tries to get the key in the lock, but she manages to get the door open, and herself into the elevator. She hadn't wanted to come back to this apartment, hadn't thought she could, but for a brief, horrible second, she's so relieved that Nadia isn't there. That she doesn't have to see her like this.

Erin collapses to the ground as soon as she's inside the apartment. She feels her knee split open as it connects with some of the broken glass still on the floor from the break-in the other night. She fumbles for the pills in her pocket, but they aren't there. "No," she cries. "No, no, no!"

She curls into a ball on the wooden floor and cries, banging her fists against the floor and taking gasping, wheezing breaths as she wails. She can't. She _can't_.

She wants Voight to take her hand and promise her that it's all going to be okay. She wants Jay to hold her in his arms and kiss her hair. But she's pushed them both so far away that they'll never come back.

She crawls into the kitchen, pulls open a drawer and reaches up, her small hand fumbling inside. It closes around a knife and she yanks it out, collapsing back against the refrigerator. She holds the knife tightly, hands shaking violently.

She manages to shrug her coat off, to push up her sleeve. Her arm is badly wrapped in a bloodied strip of gauze, and she shoves it out of the way.

She presses the blade against her forearm, gasping as the skin reddens and splits open. Her stomach heaves, and she grips the knife and slashes her arm again and again and again.

She drops the knife, turns, and throws up on the floor, her whole body convulsing for minutes on end.

She's a mess of blood and vomit and tears, and she presses her forehead to the floor. This is the lowest she's ever been, and she knows there is no way up from here.

She picks up the knife again, and before she can reconsider, she presses the tip to the end of her wrist and drags it downwards, along the blue vein. Blood flows immediately, and she sighs in relief.

She lets the knife slide out of her hand and curls into a ball. She's cold, so she pulls her coat over her like a blanket, hugs her knees to her chest, closes her eyes, and waits for it to all be over.

Jay knocks on Erin's door, not really expecting an answer. When there is none, he sighs and digs the key Voight gave him out of his pocket. He inserts it into the tumbler, then realizes the door is unlocked.

His heart rate kicks up, and he slowly pushes open the door. "Erin?" he calls warily. His limbs fill with dread, and he can barely manage to get himself inside the apartment.

The room is dark, and it takes his eyes a minute to adjust after the fluorescent brightness of the hallway. He fumbles for the light switch, flicking it on.

And then he spots her.

He thinks he screams, but he isn't sure. He's somehow kneeling at her side, but he doesn't know how he gets there. "Erin!" he shouts, ripping the coat off of her. She's lying in a pool of blood and vomit. Her jeans are ripped and the buttons on her shirt are missing. "Erin! Erin!"

He rolls her onto her back, grabbing her face between his palms. "Erin, what did you take?" he shouts. He presses his fingers to her neck-her pulse is weak, but there. "Erin!" he yells again, tapping his hand against her cheek, trying desperately to wake her.

There's blood everywhere, he realizes. He can't figure out where it's coming from. He frantically runs his hands down her body, searching for the wound.

His heart stops when he finds it. "Oh, God, Erin. Oh, no." He fumbles in his pocket for his phone. His fingers are shaking and slick with blood, but he manages to unlock it and dial 911.

He isn't sure what he says. He thinks he manages to identify himself, identify Erin. He's assured that an ambulance is on its way.

Erin moans, and he realizes that she's still conscious. He drops the phone. "Erin!" he cries. "Erin, open your eyes, okay? Erin!" He searches for something to stop the bleeding, spots a towel on the kitchen counter. He grabs it and presses it, hard, to Erin's shredded arm.

"Jay," she groans, her voice so weak he can barely hear her over the pounding of his heart in his ears.

"Erin, hang on, okay," he begs. "Just stay with me, please. You're going to be okay. It's going to be okay."

"I'm sorry," she whispers. She opens her eyes, but they're bleary and unfocused. "I love you."

Tears drip from Jay's eyes onto Erin's blood-smeared cheek. "Erin, please," he begs. "Please, hang on."

She gives him a weak smile, eyes drifting shut. "Love you," she whispers again.

"Erin!" he shouts, leaning over to make sure she's still breathing. "Erin!"

Sirens echo in the distance. Jay presses the towel to Erin's arm and prays to a God he doesn't even believe in that this isn't the end.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks everyone for reading and reviewing! It's so nice to hear your feedback! This story is definitely not done, although I can't promise to update with any sort of speed—but I will do my best.

Enjoy!

There's a piercing sound echoing in her ears, a slow, steady _beep-beep-beep_. It's making her crazy. _Beep. Beep. Beep._

She tries to reach over, tries to turn the alarm off, but she can't move. Her limbs feel heavy, weighted down. Her arm is throbbing, and her head has little bolts of lightning stabbing through it.

 _What the fuck_?

She tries to open her eyes, but it's hard. She tries to remember last night, but she can't. She doesn't know where she is, and fear floods her stomach. The beeping speeds up.

"Erin," a voice says, low and gentle. "Hey, Erin, can you hear me?"

 _Yes_ , she says, but it comes out as a moan.

"You're okay," the voice says. A thumb caresses her fingers-someone is holding her hand. "You're safe, Erin. It's just me, it's Jay. Can you open your eyes?"

But she can't. The beeping fades away, and everything disappears again.

Jay holds Erin's hand tightly, unable to take his eyes off her still face. He had thought for a second that she might be waking up, but she seems to have drifted back off.

He still doesn't know what happened. A nurse had led him and Voight into Erin's room, promising that a doctor would be in shortly. All he knows is that she's alive, that she's still breathing, that her heart is still beating. The rest, he thinks, they can deal with.

He's wearing a clean sweatshirt, courtesy of Ruzek. He'd thrown out the one stained with her blood-he doesn't think he could ever wear it again. The whole team is in the waiting room, along with half the firefighters at 51. He thinks the paramedics who'd taken them to the hospital came from there-he had been too distraught to really notice. He hasn't managed to speak to anyone yet, although he's grateful that they're all there.

"Jay?" a familiar voice says, and he jumps at the sight of Will entering the room.

"What's going on?" he says, his voice hoarse from crying. "Are you her doctor?"

"No," Will assures him. "But I wanted to introduce you to Dr. Sexton. She can give you an update on Erin's condition."

Jay hadn't noticed the young woman standing behind his brother. He nods at her.

"What's going on?" Voight says gruffly from his place by the window.

Dr. Sexton looks grim. It makes Jay even more anxious. "First of all, Erin's going to be okay," she says, and Jay relaxes just the tiniest bit. "She lost quite a bit of blood, and she was fairly dehydrated, but she's going to be fine."

"What happened?" Voight says, and Jay can tell that he's barely holding it together.

"Well, it seems she'd been drinking," Dr. Sexton says. "Her blood alcohol level was quite high. She'd also taken a narcotic, likely oxycodone, but it was mostly out of her system. And she was cutting herself. It doesn't look like it's a long-term problem-all of the cuts were fresh, and she doesn't appear to have old scars, but she did cut a vein pretty deeply, which is why she lost so much blood. It's hard to tell if it was an intentional suicide attempt though; we'll have to wait until she wakes up."

Jay turns back to Erin's unconscious form, pressing his palm to her cheek. Tears well in his eyes for what feels like the hundredth time since he found her, and he holds her hand just a little tighter.

How could he have not noticed how much pain she was in? He has to fight for breath as he thinks about her, alone in her apartment, abandoned by everyone she loves, dragging a knife across her wrist.

He's almost forgotten anyone else was in the room when he hears Voight speak again. "There's something else," his boss says, and Jay looks up, glancing anxiously between Voight and the doctor. It wasn't phrased as a question. His heart pounds as he stares at the doctor, who looks decidedly uncomfortable. There is something else.

"Erin had a lot of specific bruising," Dr. Sexton says slowly. "On her legs, and handprints and bite marks on her arms and neck. There's a pretty nasty bruise on her back too, and we found…" she stops, takes a deep breath. Jay can barely breathe himself. "We found semen on her jeans," Dr. Sexton finishes finally. "We haven't done a rape kit yet, but we'd like to once she wakes up and consents to it."

Jay feels like he's been punched. He can't manage to turn and look at Voight. All he can do is clutch Erin's hand, gasping for air and fighting what feels like an avalanche of pain and guilt.

Something startles Erin into consciousness, and suddenly, her eyes are wide open and she's fighting to get oxygen into her lungs. Bright lights assault her eyes, and whiteness-everything is so white.

"Hey, hey, Erin, you're okay," someone says. She blinks wildly, searching for the voice, and then finds Jay's face hovering in her line of vision. "Shhh, shhh. You're safe, okay? Just breathe."

"What," she gasps, looking wildly around. She has no idea where she is, what happened. Everything is hurting. She can't decipher what was a dream and what is a memory and what is real.

"Erin," Voight's familiar voice says. He's standing opposite Jay, leaning over her. A bed. She's in a bed. "It's okay, Erin," he says.

A hospital. She's in a hospital.

 _Shit_.

She fights to calm down, to take deep breaths, to regain control over her body, but it's hard. Memories are coming in flashes. A man on top of her. A little plastic bottle of pills. A knife. Blood and torn jeans.

 _Nadia_.

Jay is holding her hand and stroking her hair and whispering in her ear. She can't hear what he's saying, can't understand his words, but she focuses on the rhythm and notes of his voice, on his fingers against her skin.

She closes her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks. Voight's strong hand grips her shoulder, and it only makes her cry harder.

"It's gonna be okay," Voight says. "I promise you, everything is going to be okay."

She knows Voight always keeps his promises, and she tries to let his words sink in. It still doesn't feel okay, but she holds onto the fact that Voight wouldn't lie to her.

Jay presses his lips to her forehead and smoothes the tears from her cheeks with his thumb. He doesn't want to upset her again, doesn't want to hurt her anymore, but he needs to ask. He glances anxiously at Voight, who nods reluctantly.

"Erin," he says gently. "Do you remember what happened?" Her eyes flit to her bandaged wrist, and he knows that she does. "It's okay," he says. "The doctors say you're going to be okay."

She shakes her head and looks away, her eyes shuttering as she retreats inside herself. "Erin," he presses, very, very carefully. He doesn't know how to say this, doesn't know how to ask such a horrible and painful and personal question. "The doctors want to do a rape kit."

Her eyes widen and she sucks in a breath. "No," she says abruptly.

Jay glances over at Voight again. He looks sick. "You had a lot of bruises," he explains slowly. "They said it looked like-like maybe you'd been held down. There were bite marks too. And there was...there was semen all over your pants."

"Leave it alone," she says through gritted teeth.

"Erin," Voight chimes in, "if something happened, you need to tell us."

Erin closes her eyes, like a little girl trying to hide. "Nothing happened," she says, and her voice is so small it makes Jay's stomach ache. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Listen, we've got DNA," Voight reasons. "You know me, and you know I'm not going to let this go. So we can test it, and I can drag this guy into the cage, or you can tell us what happened." The words are harsh, but his tone is gentle. Erin still cringes.

"Look," she says. She doesn't look at either of them. "He bought me shots. I got drunk and went home with him, okay? I initiated it. And people saw. It was me. I consented. So let it go, okay? Please."

Jay feels sick at the way she says _I consented_. She makes it sound like she hadn't really. "Did you ask him to stop?" he whispers, even though he doesn't really want the answer. "Did you say no?"

She pulls her hand out of his grip, covering her eyes with her forearm. "Just stop, okay?" she chokes. "I tried to-he was too strong, and I couldn't. I said no, but-but I was the one who started it. I just didn't want-it was rough and I-I couldn't...it just was like...please, okay?"

Jay takes a slow, horrified breath. _She said no_. Erin won't look at him, so he turns towards his boss. The expression on Voight's face is terrifying.

"It's not your fault," Jay manages, his voice stilted. He doesn't want her to think he's angry at her for picking up a guy, because he isn't, not at all. But he's so angry at the situation that he can't keep it out of his words.

"Yes, it is," Erin says. "So please, let it go? Okay? I'm fine."

He wants to point out that after this happened, she went home and slit her wrist, and would have died if he hadn't gotten there in time, so she's probably not so fine. He wants to point out that she went out and got drunk and high and picked up a stranger and went back to his place, so fine is probably not really an accurate description of her current state. He wants to point out that she quit her job and disappeared for two days, but he realizes that none of these conversation threads will be productive. Instead, he says, "Did he use protection?"

Erin freezes. The silence is thick, painful, and he knows the answer. Finally, she rolls onto her side, away from him and Voight, and curls into a ball. Jay tries to reach for her, then thinks better of it and withdraws his hand, bringing it up to rub his forehead instead. Voight puts a hand on his shoulder and nods towards the hallway.

Jay hates to leave her like this, but he doesn't know what else to do. She's right in front of him, but she might as well still be missing she's so far away.

Erin feels rather than hears the two men leave the room, and finally releases the breath she's been holding. She hadn't intentionally tried to kill herself-at least, she doesn't think she had. She'd just wanted the pain and the memories and the _feelings_ to go away. But now she wishes that Jay hadn't shown up at her apartment, that he hadn't saved her.

That she wasn't here, dealing with this.

She can still feel _him_ on her, inside of her. She can still smell his cheap cologne and his sweat. It makes her gag, and she leans over the side of the hospital bed, certain that she's going to throw up, but all she can manage is a few painful minutes of dry heaving.

She curls back into a ball, clutching her knees to her chest, her body shaking violently. As usual, she's gone and made things worse. Voight and Jay are not going to let this go, and now, instead of moving on with their lives, they're going to be stuck trying to fix the mess she's made. They're going to be hurt over the actions she's taken.

She deserves what happened. She had picked that guy up and dragged him to a bed, and it's her fault that she couldn't handle it. She deserves it. But Jay-he doesn't.

The raw agony she'd heard in Jay's voice makes her chest twist. She wishes she'd never met him-he's much, much too good for her, and all she's done is cause him pain. She's broken his heart over and over and over again, and now she's going to keep doing it. Now he's going to try to help her, to be there for her. And all that's going to do is hurt him because he wants to save her, and she is beyond saving.

Nadia had so much potential and so much life inside of her and ahead of her, and Nadia died. Erin is a walking ghost, a failure, a poison, and yet she survived. And she can't help but think that the gods picked the wrong girl.

Jay has seen Voight pretty angry. Furious, even. He's seen him torture suspects, seen him lash out at unsuspecting witnesses. But he doesn't think he's ever seen Voight as tense as he looks right now, at this very moment. This time, he understands-he wants to strangle this guy, who doesn't have a name or a face, with his bare hands as well.

Voight doesn't speak for a long, long time. He stands in the middle of the hallway, coiled tightly, a bomb about to explode. Jay watches him anxiously. He isn't sure if he should help him kill the guy, or try to stop him for Erin's sake. He isn't really sure what happened last night, can't quite envision the series of events.

"I want her clothes tested," Voight growls finally, his voice low and dangerous. "Get Antonio and Olinsky on this. I want it fast-tracked. I want a name today. And if he isn't in the system, then we need to go back to that bar and get a sketch from the bartender, and start checking traffic cams."

"Okay," Jay says slowly. "But if she doesn't consent to the rape kit-"

"I don't care," Voight shouts, and people startle and stare. "I'm not gonna let some jackass get away with...with…"

For a second, he thinks his boss might cry. But Voight gets a hold of himself and says slowly, "Erin has been through enough. And if she said no, she said no, and I am not going to let someone get away with forcing her. I'm going to go talk to Al, and then I'm going to find the doctor and see if we can get a shrink in here. For now, you see if you can get her to talk."

Jay watches him walk away, then slowly turns back towards the dreary hospital room.

He can do this. She needs him, so he can do this.

Erin startles hard when the door opens. "Sorry," Jay says, holding his hands up automatically. "It's just me. I'm sorry."

She curls back into a ball, facing away from him, trying to calm her racing heart. She hears Jay sit back down in the chair beside her, and she closes her eyes, as if she can hide from all of this.

"How are you feeling?" Jay asks quietly, his voice so gentle that tears flood her eyes again.

"What are you doing here?" she grits out in response.

"I love you," he says without hesitation, and she tenses in surprise. "And I've got your back. Always. No matter what, Erin."

"Jay, don't," she chokes. A vague memory comes to her, of telling Jay she loved him as she waited to die on her kitchen floor. She hadn't been sure if it was real or a dream.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says, as if he hasn't even heard her. "And I will do anything to get you through this, okay? And even if you don't believe me now, I'm going to say it over and over and over again until you hear me, okay?"

She presses her face into the pillow. Her arm throbs, and she savors the pain. Why oh why is she such a colossal fuck-up? She couldn't just ruin her own life, she had to ruin Jay's as well. "Why are you doing this?" she manages.

"Because I love you," he says again, and his voice is just inches from her ear this time, his breath warm and soothing against her cheek. "I love you. I love you. Do you hear me? I love you, Erin Lindsay."

She believes him. She does. But she also knows that he doesn't _know_ her. That once he sees who she really is-a drug-addicted former prostitute who destroys everything she touches-he won't love her. And he certainly won't have her back.

This is why she pushed him away in the first place. And she loves him, she does, so she pushes herself up and tries to explain it to him. Tries to save him from her. But she can't meet his eyes as she does it.

"I slept with Landon," she blurts out. "And that guy-I didn't even get his name, but I picked him up and I went back to his apartment. I wanted it. I've been high for the last week-oxy, but I used to shoot heroin, and if I can't get more oxy, I'll go out and score heroin, I will. When I was 13, I was a prostitute. I slept with probably a hundred guys, gross, sketchy, fat losers, and they paid me for it. I used to sell weed on the west side. That's who I am. I'm nothing but trouble, Jay. I got Nadia killed, and I almost got Landon killed. I don't want you and Voight to get hurt, so please, Jay. If you love me, please. Please just go."

The speech is impossible to listen to, but Jay forces himself to remain quiet, to not intervene. He listens with his mouth open in shock, the words slicing through him like knives. When she falls silent, he's so stunned he can't get the words to come out.

He's overwhelmed by the avalanche of information. The details of her past that she's kept hidden, the fact that she's been using drugs, just as Voight said. But more than that, he's taken aback by the overwhelming guilt in her voice as she says _I got Nadia killed_.

And he wants to kick himself for missing that. He'd thought she was grieving. Thought she was missing Nadia and coping poorly. It had never occurred to him that she might be blaming herself.

He doesn't know where to start, and yet he needs to, right now, before she shuts down again. Somehow, he needs to get through to her. So he starts at the beginning. "I don't care who you slept with," he says. "And I don't care about the drugs or the prostitution, or anything that happened to you in the past. That's not who you are, Erin. What happened to you is not who you are."

She shakes her head. "Doesn't mean you want to be with someone with a past like mine," she says numbly. "I'm damaged, Jay. Voight thought he could fix me, but he was wrong, I can't be fixed."

"That isn't true," he says firmly. "You know it's not true. You are a survivor, Erin. You are the strongest, toughest person I have ever met. That is who you are. Nothing else matters."

He takes a deep breath and tries to touch the next issue, the biggest issue. "And Erin," he says gently. He reaches carefully, slowly, for her face, cupping her cheek in his palm. She closes her eyes, but she doesn't pull away. "Erin, nothing that happened to Nadia is your fault. Not at all. Not in any way. You did everything you could to save her. You didn't get her killed."

Tears trickle over his fingers, but he doesn't move. She shakes her head to disagree, but he keeps going. "Why do you think it's your fault?" he presses. "Because of the cake?"

She shakes her head. "If I'd just left her alone in the first place, she wouldn't have been there," she chokes. "She would have been fine."

"Erin, if you'd left her alone in the first place, she would have been dead long ago," he says. "You gave her a home, and a family, and a dream, and a chance. And she loved you, Erin. God, you saved her. Can't you see that?"

"It should've been me," she sobs, and she's crying hard now. "I'm the one that pushed him. He went after her because of me. He wanted to hurt me, and he targeted her because of me." She shrugs off his touch and buries her face in her hands, shoulders shuddering violently. "It should have been me! I wish he'd killed me."

Tears are streaming down Jay's face as well. He doesn't want to trivialize Nadia's death in any way, but if it had been Erin's battered body they'd found on that beach, he doesn't think he would have survived it. He knows Voight wouldn't have. He has the smallest inkling of how Erin is feeling because if he'd lost Erin-he can't even go there.

And it makes him feel horrible, because Nadia is dead, because Erin is going through hell, but he is so thankful that it wasn't her.

He stares at her for a few minutes, watching her body convulse with sobs, and he can't help himself. He knows he should probably give her some space, knows that even if she denies it, she was raped just a few hours ago. But he can't just sit here and watch her torture herself. He lowers the guardrail on the side of the bed and climbs onto the lumpy mattress. There's plenty of room, since Erin has curled herself into the corner away from him, but she still startles, looking up at him with wide, miserable, tear-filled eyes.

"C'mere," he says gently, carefully gathering her into his arms. "Shhh, shhh." She's tense, but she lets him wrap his arms around her, pressing her face into his chest. The tears soak his shirt, but he doesn't care. He rocks her back and forth like a child, pressing kisses to her hair and whispering, over and over and over again, "It isn't your fault, Erin. It's not on you."

He holds her tightly as she cries herself to sleep.

Erin wakes up in strong arms, her cheek smashed against Jay's chest. His T-shirt is wet from her tears, and embarrassment washes over her. "Sorry," she murmurs, her voice hoarse, and tries to pull away.

He doesn't let her. "It's okay," he says, rubbing his hand up and down her arm. "How are you feeling?"

She shrugs. Her head feels like it might split open and she's nauseous and shaky, but Jay doesn't need to know that. Her eyes catch on Voight, sitting in the chair by the side of the bed, and she freezes. "Uh…" she croaks, watching him warily.

He offers her a sad smile. If he has anything to say about her crying in Halstead's arms, he keeps his mouth shut, and she decides that Voight's opinion on her love life is really the least of her problems right now. "Hey, kid," he says, and if she didn't know better, she'd swear he had been crying too.

She tries to sit up a little, to reassert at least some of her independence, and Jay lets her, although he doesn't get off the bed. With shaking hands, she smoothes her hair down, eyes darting anxiously between the two men.

And she knows what they're going to say.

"Kid," Voight finally says sadly. "Can't run from this." She isn't sure if he's talking about the-sexual encounter-or Nadia's death, or her substance use, or slashing her wrists.

Or all of it.

She nods. She knows. If there's anything he's taught her, it's that she needs to face things, to deal with them, to get through them.

"The doctor stopped by while you were asleep," Jay says. "They need to do the kit within the next couple hours, just to make sure you're okay and to-to…"

"To collect any evidence," Voight finishes.

Erin nods, chewing furiously on her lip. She can't look at either of them.

"We just need to make sure that you're okay, Erin," Jay murmurs in her ear, his body a warm, solid weight beside her.

"You're not going to have a case," she says, although her voice is weak, and she knows she's giving in. "I went there willingly, I said yes."

"But then you said no," Voight says. Erin squeezes her eyes shut.

"If a woman came in and told you that she was raped," Jay starts. Erin flinches at the word, and she can feel Jay falter over it as well. "If she told you that she'd said yes initially, but then said no, what would you say to her?"

"I know," she rasps. "It's just-you can't prosecute him. I don't know who he is, and it's just-I didn't-" She shakes her head furiously. "I don't want to prosecute him. I can't do it."

"Okay," Voight says. "That's fine, but just in case you change your mind, you don't want to regret it later, right? And more than that, you need to let the docs check you out. Make sure that you weren't hurt, let them give you any meds you need."

She hesitates. The thought of strangers touching her right now makes her feel sick, and she knows that there is no way she'll ever see this case through. There is no way she'll ever tell anyone, not even Jay or Voight, about what happened that night. She thinks of the courtroom at Yates' trial, of the way that scumbag said horrible things about Nadia and her past, and she knows that she can't do that. She can't sit there and go through that.

"Please," Jay whispers, before she can say no. "Please, Erin. For me."

She looks at Jay, finally. His eyes are red and watery, and shining with worry and pain, and...love. And it reminds her that no one has ever looked at her the way Jay does.

"Okay," she says, so quietly she can barely hear herself. "I'll do it."


	3. Chapter 3

Hi everyone! Thank you all so much for your very sweet reviews! A couple quick notes: first of all, this is quite depressing! I do anticipate that it will eventually brighten up somewhat, and future chapters will involve a wider range of characters.

Second, in this story, Erin was raped, and the story will deal with the aftermath of that. I don't think it's the whole focus of the story, but it will continue to be a part of it, since it isn't something that will just go away for her. If this is something that upsets you, I totally understand, and I recommend that you skip this story! If not, then enjoy! Thanks!

When the nurse wheels Erin out of her hospital room for the rape exam, Jay collapses against the wall, too exhausted and overwhelmed to hold himself vertical. He's never felt so many emotions attacking him all at once. Erin's guilt and pain and depression are agonizing, but he can't help feeling grateful, feeling _relieved_ , at the way she'd let him hold her.

It brings just the tiniest spark of joy to what has to be one of the darkest days of his life.

"She talk to you?" Voight asks, sitting wearily on the edge of Erin's hospital bed. He looks as tired and defeated as Jay feels.

"Yeah," Jay says hoarsely. He leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes. God he's tired. "She thinks she got Nadia killed," he says weakly. "She said it should have been her."

Voight breathes out a harsh gasp of pain. "Okay," he whispers after a long silence. "Did she say anything about the last few days?"

"Just that she's been high for the last week," Jay grits out.

Voight rubs his hands over his face. "Okay," he says. "Olinsky and Antonio are checking traffic cams around that bar, trying to pull footage and see if we can get a face on that scumbag. Ruzek's sitting on the lab-they're testing the DNA now."

"Voight," Jay says softly, shaking his head. "I don't think she can handle this."

"I can't let this asshole just walk away," Voight says, although his anger is more muted now.

"I know," Jay says sadly. "I know, but if it's going to hurt her more, then we can't. We just can't."

"He raped her," Voight says, his jaw clenched tight.

"Yeah," Jay says, swallowing hard. "I know that, and you know that, and maybe we can get her to realize that. But a prosecutor? A jury? She picked that guy up and she went home with him willingly. And a defense lawyer is going to tear her apart. He's going to bring up her past, and the drinking, and the drugs, and she can't-we can't make her go through that."

Voight's hands are balled into fists. "I want to kill him," he admits. "She was going through so much already, and for some asshole to just-to just..."

"And that's the thing," Jay says, pushing himself off the wall and forcing his body to stand straight, because he doesn't want to hear the end of that thought. He can't hear the end of that thought. "That's what we need to focus on. I hate to put it this way, but what happened last night-it's just the tip of the iceberg. There's so much more going on with her, and we need to help her get through that."

Voight nods slowly. "Okay," he says softly. "Okay, let's do it your way."

When Dr. Sexton finishes the rape exam, she hands the collected samples to the forensic nurse who has been assisting and covers Erin's legs with a sheet. Erin doesn't move, doesn't even react. She's long since stopped crying, her eyes zoned out on the tiled ceiling above her. She's in another world, another place.

Anywhere but here.

The doctor pulls up a stool besides the cot and sits down. Erin doesn't turn to look at her, barely even registers her presence. "We're giving you a combination of antibiotics to protect against common STDs," she says finally, her voice soft and sympathetic. "I can also give you the morning-after pill to prevent pregnancy, if you'd like."

"Yes," Erin says numbly.

"Okay," Dr. Sexton says. "I'll have the nurse bring that in when we get you back to your room."

"When can I go home?"

Dr. Sexton sighs. "I wanted to talk to you first about what happened," she says. Erin doesn't respond. She's feeling raw and exposed after the rape examination, after the last month. She can't relive the events of last night right now. All she can do is stuff them down into a tiny box and shelve it in the very back corner of her brain, alongside the events of her childhood.

The silence stretches between them, long and uncomfortable. Erin offers no help, and finally, Dr. Sexton says, "Were you trying to hurt yourself?"

Erin thinks that's a stupid question. All she was trying to do was numb the pain, and she thinks that should be obvious. But she knows that isn't the kind of answer that will get her sprung from this hospital, so she shakes her head. "It was just a rough night," she says dully.

"How long have you been cutting yourself?" the doctor presses.

Erin sighs, squeezes her eyes shut. "I haven't," she says firmly. "I just had a rough night. That's all. It was just a one-time thing."

"And the drugs and alcohol?" the doctor says. "Erin, look at me." Erin doesn't move, fixing her eyes on the wall. "Erin, please, I'm just trying to help you."

"I don't have a drug problem," Erin says distantly. "Okay? I just partied a little too hard."

"Mixing drugs and alcohol can be dangerous," Dr. Sexton tells her, and Erin bristles at her tone. "Why were you taking oxycodone?"

Erin grits her teeth, digs her fingernails into her palms. "Look, I made a mistake, okay?" she says. "I took some pills, I went to a bar, and I picked up the wrong guy, okay? I've been-" she searches for words, then find's Voight's- "dealing with depression. I wasn't trying to kill myself. It was an accident, okay? Now, can I please go home?"

Dr. Sexton sighs, defeated. "I'd like to keep you overnight," she says. "You were severely dehydrated and we're still trying to correct that. I'd like you to remain on the IV for at least another 12 hours. I'd also like you to talk to a psychiatrist."

Erin shrugs. She doesn't know where she's going to go now anyway. Might as well spend the night in the hospital. She's certainly not going to talk to a shrink, but there's no point arguing about that now. "Fine," she says mechanically. "Can I go back to my room now? I'm tired, I'd like to rest."

There's a long moment of silence, but Erin doesn't turn to look at the doctor. "Okay," Dr. Sexton says finally. "I'll take you back."

Voight has stepped out to get them some food and check in with Antonio and Olinsky, so Jay is alone in Erin's room when the door opens. He's slumped in what he's reasonably sure is the world's most uncomfortable chair, his head tilted back against the wall, and while there's no way a normal person could fall asleep in this position, he's floating along on a pleasant wave of semi-consciousness. He barely even hears the click of the door, and he doesn't open his eyes, assuming it's Voight or Olinsky or Ruzek. He thinks it might even be a dream.

Until he's startled out of his daze by a shrill voice. "Where's Erin?"

Jay bangs his head against the wall as he jolts upright. "What?" he gasps, disoriented and confused.

Erin's mother is standing in the doorway, hands on her hips, murder on her face. Jay's eyes widen and he forces himself to stand, ignoring the way the blood rushes to his head. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" Bunny asks, dramatically affronted. "Why didn't anyone call me? I went over to Erin's apartment and her neighbor said they took her away in an ambulance. Where is she?"

"She's having some tests done," Jay says, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "She's okay," he adds, although she isn't, really. "She'll be okay."

Bunny doesn't seem that preoccupied with how Erin is doing, or even with what happened. "Why did no one call me?" she persists angrily. "I'm her mother! I'm her family."

Jay doesn't really have the emotional energy to handle this right now. "I'm sorry," he says wearily. "It's been a little bit crazy. She is going to be fine though."

"This is Hank, isn't it?" Bunny says, eyes narrowing. "This is his way of keeping me from her."

"No," Jay says. He really just wants to go back to his nap, just wants to catch a few minutes of sleep before they bring Erin back. He also doesn't want Erin to have to deal with Bunny-he has a feeling she won't be in the right frame of mind for it either. "I'm really sorry, Bunny, we just hadn't gotten around to it."

He's trying to figure out a gentle way to ask Bunny to leave, when another voice cuts through the room, this one harsher and angrier. "What the hell's going on in here?"

Bunny whirls around, the real object of her anger finally appearing before her. Jay cringes. _Shit_. "I should ask you that!" she shouts. "Where the hell do you get off not calling me when _my_ _daughter_ is in the hospital?"

"Your daughter," Voight says bitterly. He drops the bag he's holding on the ground. "When in the hell have you ever cared about _your_ daughter?"

"She asked you to give her some space," Bunny rages. "She asked you to leave her alone!"

"No, you asked me to give her some space," Voight says, advancing on Erin's mother menacingly. Bunny takes a small step back, and Jay doesn't blame her-Voight looks pretty scary right now. "I left her with you, and where were you? She got drunk and slit her wrists, and where were you?" Voight sneers, and Bunny backs up even further. "Right where you always were. Gone. You don't give a shit about her. You just wanted to win a pissing contest with me."

"She is my daughter!" Bunny sputters, although she's backed up practically to the wall. "I am trying to be there for her, but you've poisoned her against me!"

"No, you did that all on your own," Voight growls. "Every time you OD'd, every time you sent her out to buy drugs for you, every time you left her on her own, for _years_ , you poisoned her against you. Do you know how she ended up here? Because you failed her. Again. Just like you always have. Do you know what she did to survive?"

Jay slips out the door, closing it behind him. It's been hours since they took Erin, and he's worried that she could be back any minute. She doesn't need to see this.

Erin keeps her eyes on the floor as a nurse wheels her back to her room. She wasn't completely lying when she told the doctor she was tired-her head is pounding with exhaustion, and all she wants is to curl up in a ball and sleep forever.

They stop suddenly in the hallway, and the sound of yelling shocks her out of her trance. Jay is standing in front of the closed door to her room, looking worried and apologetic. An angry voice is shrieking behind the door, fighting to be heard over the unmistakable gravelly bark of the man who raised her. She can't make out the words, but she doesn't need to. She shrinks even further into her wheelchair, closing her eyes and sighing wearily.

She opens them again to find Jay kneeling in front of her, a hand on the arm of the wheelchair, studying her face like he's trying to memorize her soul. He smiles sadly, reaches to touch her cheek, then seems to think better of it. "She went to your apartment," he says softly. "Your neighbor told her they'd taken you here."

Erin nods, flinching as a particularly angry scream rings in her ears. "At least she checked on me," she says with a humorless laugh.

Jay smiles a tiny, angry smile. "How are you feeling?" he asks, and she shrugs. She isn't sure she's really feeling at all.

The sound of glass shattering inside the room jars Erin's fragile equilibrium, and she gasps, her whole body tensing against an imaginary attacker. She struggles to breathe, clutching the armrests of the wheelchair so tightly her hands protest. Sirens are screaming in her ears, and her heart is pounding so hard she's sure it's going to break a rib.

Suddenly, the ground is moving beneath her, and she opens her eyes to find that the wheelchair is gliding down the hallway. Over the rushing in her ears, she can hear Jay's voice. She closes her eyes and lets it soothe her as he takes her away from all of this.

It's chilly on the roof, so Jay unzips his hoody and shrugs out of it, wrapping the sweatshirt around Erin's thin shoulders. She's only wearing a flimsy hospital gown and he's concerned that she's still cold, but her breathing has evened out since he got her up here, and he's pretty sure this was the right thing to do.

He sends a quick text to his brother to let him know where they are, in case anyone gets worried, and sits down on the wooden bench next to Erin's wheelchair. He thinks this is where the hospital staff sneak out to smoke, but there's no one up here now, and it's quiet and soothing, with only the distant sounds of the traffic on the street below.

Erin's still got her eyes closed tightly, but her face has relaxed, and she's no longer shaking. She clearly isn't okay, so there's no point asking her. Instead, he very slowly, carefully, reaches over and takes her hand in his. She jumps, but doesn't pull away, turning to look at him. Her eyes are unreadable, but he wraps his palm around her cold fingers and offers her a small smile.

Her eyes fill with tears, and she turns away, staring at the gray sky. After a long moment, she squeezes his hand.

Erin sits silently in the psychiatrist's office, staring blankly at the clock on the wall as it slowly ticks out the seconds. The room is mostly white, fairly non-descript, with a few generic paintings of flowers on the walls. The only thing worth looking at is an old poster from a Led Zeppelin concert.

For some reason, it makes Erin think of Rocklahoma, which makes her think of Landon. It causes her stomach to twist uncomfortably-she never even checked on how he was, on what happened to him after he left her apartment that night-so she forces the thought away.

"So, Erin," the shrink broaches, after several minutes of silence. "Tell me a little bit about yourself."

For some reason, that feels like the hardest question in the world to answer. Erin has no idea what to say about herself. She isn't a detective anymore, so what is she? She can't go back to her apartment, possibly ever again, so where does she live? She broke up with Jay, although for some reason he is still here, and she walked away from Voight and from her squad, and Nadia is dead. She isn't a girlfriend or a daughter or a friend...so who is she?

For the first time since they brought her into this drab office, Erin turns and meets the doctor's eyes. They're kind and gentle, sympathetic without pity, and Erin finds herself sucked into them. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out, and she shakes her head uncertainly. "I-" she tries, then trails off.

The doctor-she can't remember her name-smiles encouragingly. "Anything," she says. "Where'd you grow up?"

"Here," Erin manages. "Chicago." But the topic of her childhood is a minefield that Erin can't wade into right now, and she shakes her head. "My favorite color is red," she offers instead, because that seems like a safe subject. Colors. "I hate sushi," she adds.

The doctor laughs. "Okay, that's a start," she says.

But obviously, it isn't, because she leans forward and says gently, "Look, we don't have to talk about why you're here. Not now, anyway, although I would like you to keep coming to see me after you're discharged. We don't have to talk about what happened yesterday. But I do need to know that you're going to be safe when you leave tomorrow, you know?"

"I'll be fine," Erin says, but her voice is thick with tears. "It was an accident."

"I believe you," the doctor tells her. "When you're discharged tomorrow, where will you go? Back to your apartment?"

 _Hell no_ , Erin wants to say, but she doesn't have another answer prepared, so she shrugs. "Yeah, I guess."

"And do you live by yourself?" the doctor presses, and the question triggers a wave of pain, so real and intense that Erin has to curl forward, hunching over and clutching at her stomach. "Erin?"

"I can't, okay?" she says. "I can't."

She doesn't really know what she means, knows the doctor can't possibly understand her. She can't find the words to explain that yes, she lives by herself, because her roommate was _murdered_. She manages to clarify with the first thing that comes to her mind.

"Can you give me something?" she begs. "Xanax or valium? Anything. Please." She can't handle _feeling_ this any longer.

Jay slumps in a chair outside of Erin's room, exhaustion and pain settling deep into his bones. It's been less than 24 hours since he found Erin bleeding out on the floor of her apartment, but it feels like a lifetime. The road ahead looks even more daunting.

When they'd brought Erin back from the psychiatrist's office, she'd been completely shut down, a clam in a shell that he couldn't pry open. She'd refused to even look at him, her eyes glazed over and distant. "Did they give her something?" he'd hissed at the nurse as she wheeled her into the room, but the nurse had shaken her head.

He doesn't know what happened in that office, but the hour she'd spent there had changed her from the girl willing to hold his hand into the silent, far-away waif currently curled up in her hospital bed, pretending to sleep.

He feels totally helpless, powerless to do anything that will alleviate Erin's pain. And he needs to, because he needs her so badly. Because he _misses_ her. He misses the girl who'd laughed as she tased him in the groin, the one who had murmured that she'd take a bullet just to come over to his house that night in a voice so sexy he could barely sit still. He misses the girl who'd unapologetically steal the last bite of a chocolate chip cookie out of his hand then wink and promise to make it up to him later.

He'd been missing her for months-waking up beside her, her back pressed against his chest. Tangling her fingers with his as they stole a moment in the breakroom. Kissing her on the sidewalk outside her building as she giggled and squealed that someone might see them. But he'd been able to handle the loss of their relationship because he still had _her_ -his best friend, his partner, his back-up.

That person, that version of Erin is so far away these days that he doesn't know how to find her. And he doesn't know how he's supposed to live without her.

He's startled out of his thoughts by his boss, dropping heavily onto the seat beside him. He looks around warily. "Where's Bunny?" he says.

"She won't be coming back," Voight says gruffly, in a tone that lets him know not to ask any further questions.

Jay digests that slowly. He doesn't think that Voight would kill Erin's mother, but-well, you really never knew with Voight. He decides not to ask.

"How's she doing?" Voight asks.

Jay shakes his head, his eyes focused on the window into her room. She hasn't moved since he left her in there. "Not well," he says numbly. "The meeting with the shrink…"

Voight sighs. "Did they say when they're letting her go?"

"In the morning," Jay says. "Listen, Voight-I wanted to ask her if she would come stay with me." Hank doesn't respond, his face unreadable. "I just-obviously, I don't want her going back to that apartment. I don't think she should be alone, and I think that place just has too many bad memories for her right now. And I know you probably want her to stay with you, but I thought that maybe it might be better if she...if we don't treat her like a kid, you know? I thought that-"

"Okay," Voight says.

"What?"

"Ask her," he says. "See if she'll stay with you."

Jay opens and closes his mouth, unsure of how to respond. For a second, he wants to ask why Voight wasn't this supportive three months ago. He wants to point out that if Voight hadn't made them break up, he would have been with Erin after Nadia died, and maybe he could have stopped this spiral.

But he decides to take what he's been given. "Okay," he says, leaning his head back against the wall again. "Okay, I'll ask her."

It's late, 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning maybe, but Erin isn't sleeping. The hospital is as quiet as a hospital ever gets, and she's alone, for the first time all day. She'd finally convinced Jay and Voight to go get some sleep, after agreeing to stay at Jay's place for a while. She'd gotten the feeling that it was either his home or Voight's, and anyway, she wasn't ready to go back to her own apartment.

She worries that she might never be, but she doesn't tell Jay that.

Alone in the dark hospital room, the uncertainties facing her look like the monsters she used to dream about under her bed.

She's petrified of the future. Erin used to pride herself on not being afraid of anything, but that's all changed. Now, life stretches out before her like a dark, deserted tunnel, and there's no light at the end. She can't see what happens next, can't picture anything good ever happening again. The future looks utterly and completely hopeless.

She isn't sure what she was thinking when she handed Voight her badge, although there's no way she could have kept it either. She isn't sure what the plan had been, besides crawling into a hole and drinking herself to death. But now even that isn't an option, because hurting herself will only hurt Jay-and that's exactly what she doesn't want. She thinks of the spark of joy, of _hope_ , that streaked across Jay's face as she held his hand on the roof earlier, and she can't bring herself to be the one to take that away from him.

Even if she knows that taking herself out of his life is probably better for him in the long run. He loves her. And she loves him, and she is so, so tired of hurting the people she loves.

She can't help but feel terrified of what will happen once he realizes what a fuck-up she is. Once he gets tired of dealing with her mess. Or-worse-what will happen if her failures and her mistakes get him injured, or killed...like they did Nadia.

She curls up in a ball on her side, clutching a pillow to her chest. She can't help but wish that she'd never met Voight all those years ago, that he'd never taken her in. She'd probably be dead, she knows that.

It would probably be better.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks for your reviews everyone! Here's chapter 4:

-o-o-

Jay jolts awake to screaming, and almost falls off the couch. He throws the afghan off his legs, nearly trips over it, and stumbles onto the floor, running for his bedroom.

He forces himself to stop and calm himself down outside the closed door. The dawn light is trickling through the living room windows-the night is almost over. And this is Erin's third nightmare.

He takes a deep breath and carefully pushes open the door. Erin is sitting up in his bed, legs tangled up in the covers, hair plastered to her sweaty forehead, her whole body shaking. Her tear-stained cheeks shine in the light of the bedside lamp. "Hey," he says gently. He approaches her slowly. "You want some water?"

She shakes her head, taking slow, deep breaths. He cautiously edges towards the bed and sits down on the corner, a safe distance away from her.

Erin's been staying with him for five days now, and every night has been interrupted by terrible, terrifying dreams. It's taken him somewhat by surprise. He's used to nightmares-his own, right after he got home, and those of his squadmates in Afghanistan-but in the two months they were together, he doesn't remember Erin ever waking up crying.

"Were you-dreaming about that night?" he broaches hesitantly. She still hasn't told him what happened, and they only ever refer to the incident as "that night." She shakes her head now, avoiding his eyes. "Or-about Nadia?" he presses, even more anxiously.

In the last few days, he's realized that Nadia is off limits. They don't talk about her-her death, her life, anything. They don't even mention her name.

She looks like he's just hit her. "No," she says harshly. "Jay, you should go to work. You don't need to sit home with me all the time."

He sighs. "I thought maybe we could go for a run," he suggests instead, trying to sound upbeat. "It looks like it's going to be a beautiful day. We could head down to the riverwalk, maybe get brunch at Kitchenette afterwards?"

"You don't have to babysit me," she says, completely ignoring his suggestion. "You don't need to call Voight to come over every time you go out for groceries, and you don't need to check on me every five minutes. You've already gotten rid of all the knives and alcohol and pills and guns in this place. I'm not going to do anything, okay?"

That stings for some reason, and Jay takes a breath, and he's tempted to remind her of what happened the last time he left her alone. "I'm not babysitting you," he says, trying not to sound defensive. "I just wanted to spend some time together. I just thought we could do something fun."

God, he misses her. He thinks of morning runs together by the lake, of her gentle teasing over coffee and bagels. He thinks of showering together after, of so much laughter that they'd have to scramble to make it to work on time.

She turns away, but not before he sees her eyes fill with tears. Without another word, she climbs off the bed and heads for the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Within seconds, the shower starts running.

He presses his fingers to his temple. _Shit_.

-o-o-

"So tell me about Hank," Dr. Carraway says, less than a minute into Erin's appointment.

Erin flinches. This is her third every-other-day session, and she's pretty much said nothing at the first two. Forty-eight hours ago, she stared at the wall and rambled on about dogs for a few minutes when it seemed she was supposed to speak. She wasn't expecting to have to change that today. She bites her lip. "He's my boss," she says finally, dismissively, picking at the gauze wrapped around her wrist.

"Is that all he is?" Dr. Carraway presses, and Erin finally turns to look at her, eyes widening.

"What?" she manages.

"You called him your boss," the doctor says. "But he's more than that, isn't he?"

Erin swallows. Hard. She feels like she's in an interrogation, on the wrong side. How does this woman know this? She digs her nails into her palms. "He's my-he was my foster father," she says reluctantly. She doesn't want to talk about Hank. She doesn't want to talk about anything, really, but she certainly does not want to talk about Hank. Her eyes are stinging and her throat hurts, and she forces herself to breathe in through her nose.

Dr. Carraway nods, smiling sympathetically in a way that makes Erin bristle. "For how long?" she asks.

"He took me in when I was fifteen," she says shortly. She doesn't volunteer any additional information.

"And how long did you stay with him?"

"Until I graduated from the Academy," Erin says, gritting her teeth. "I was twenty-one."

The doctor leans forward intently, moving in for the kill, and Erin stiffens. She isn't going to like what's coming next, she knows. "Why did you move in with Hank?" she asks.

Erin's hands are shaking. She feels suddenly lightheaded, and she's pretty sure she's on the verge of a panic attack. "Because Hank thought he could save me," she manages, clenching her jaw.

"Save you from what?"

She squeezes her eyes shut. She would give anything for some valium or a few thousand milligrams of morphine or a hit of heroin. Anything to take her away from this. "You already know," she says. "You've seen my file. You already knew he took me in. So why are you asking?"

"Because I want you to tell me about it," the doctor says.

"Tell you about what?" Erin explodes. "What is it that you want from me? My mother? Or maybe my father? Or-or the drugs, or sex, or what? What is it you want me to say?"

"All of it," Dr. Carraway says simply. "Erin, you need to be able to talk about this stuff in order to work through it. To get on with your life."

"You know what," Erin fires back bitterly. "I was doing just fine without talking about anything, okay? I was a detective! They recruited me for a fucking federal task force! Me! And I did that all without working through my feelings about my junkie mother, okay?"

"You were a detective," the doctor says, seizing upon her use of the past tense. "Why aren't you anymore?"

Anger rages through her like a wildfire burning out of control. "Because I got Nadia killed!" Erin screams, leaping off the couch. Before she realizes what she's doing, she's slammed her fist into the wall.

The room is suddenly silent, tension crackling through the small space. Erin struggles for breath, her hand throbbing.

She has a sudden flashback, an intense memory of standing in Voight's home office, 15-years-old and furious at the world. _Erin, if you don't learn to control your anger, you're never going to be a cop_ , he'd told her patiently. _You're never going to beat them._

And Hank was right. They've beaten her.

Her legs give out beneath her, and she slumps on the floor, too ashamed and upset and drained to lift her head.

"Okay," Dr. Carraway says finally, in a voice that gives away absolutely nothing. "Erin, look at me." Erin shakes her head, a small child embarrassed to be caught misbehaving. "Erin," she says softly, and waits until Erin manages to meet her eyes. She sees nothing but compassion, and for some reason, that makes everything hurt more. "Have you ever talked to anyone before? About what happened to you as a kid?"

Erin shakes her head, leaning back against the wall and swiping a hand across her eyes. "Hank, I guess."

"Good," the therapist says. "That's a good start." She pulls a tissue out from the box on her desk, then comes across the room and offers it to Erin, lowering herself onto the ground beside her. "Now. Tell me about Hank."

Erin wipes her running nose with the tissue, squeezes her eyes shut, and nods.

"We met when I was fourteen," she says hesitantly. And slowly, haltingly, she tells the story.

-o-o-

Jay nurses his beer distractedly. Molly's is crowded with firefighters and cops, but Jay is somewhere else entirely. He stares blankly at the wall, fingers absently circling the sweating top of the bottle.

"Jay!" Antonio says loudly, waving his hand. "Halstead!"

Jay zones back into the conversation. Dawson and Olinsky are both staring at him expectantly, and he realizes they've been trying to get his attention for a while. "Sorry," he says, taking a swig of his beer. "Sorry, I just...what'd you say?"

Olinsky pats his arm. "How are you doing?" he asks.

Jay shakes his head. "I'm fine," he dismisses. He isn't the one they should be concerned about. "I'm just worried about her."

"It's hard, you know," Antonio says. "Taking care of someone."

Jay sighs. He doesn't feel like he's been taking care of Erin so much as holding his breath and watching her, waiting for her to implode. "I just-I _miss_ her, you know?" he confesses. "She's a few feet away from me, and I still miss her. It's like she's not even there. And I don't know how to help her. I don't know how to get her back."

"You already are," Olinsky says. "You saved her life, and she knows that. And someday she'll even be grateful for it."

Jay is too exhausted to cry again, although he kind of wants to. "I missed it," he says instead, shaking his head and kicking himself for the hundredth time this week. "She was spiraling and I just didn't notice."

"None of us did," Olinsky points out. "You, me, Voight...we all should have stepped up. It's not on you kid."

Jay takes another gulp of his beer. "And I'm-sometimes I'm just so mad at her," he blurts out suddenly. He hadn't even realized until he said the words out loud that he was, that he is. "I just-I don't understand how she could do that to me," he whispers harshly, and the image of her lying on her kitchen floor, surrounded by blood and tears and vomit, flickers behind his eyelids. "And I'm trying, I just want to help her. I just want her to feel better, but she's doing everything to push me away, and I just-"

He wants to scream at her, he realizes. He wants to shake her until she understands what she's putting him through. Because he's so fucking in love with her.

But he won't.

"I just want her to talk to me," he finishes lamely.

"She will," Antonio says. _You don't know that,_ Jay wants to say, but he just nods and finishes his drink. "How's the therapy going?"

"Well, she punched a wall there today," Jay says ruefully. "Maybe that's progress. I don't know."

He thinks maybe it was just a new way to hurt herself, now that he's hidden the alcohol and the pills and the knives and the guns. Now that Voight has told her mother to stay away, and that loser ex-boyfriend has disappeared.

Antonio laughs. "See?" He says, punching Jay in the arm. "She's still in there somewhere."

Jay picks at the label of the empty bottle and hopes that Antonio is right.

-o-o-

Erin picks at her Chinese food, circling it around the plate slowly. The knuckles on her right hand are bruised and scabbed, and it hurts just to hold the fork. Her own stupid fault. She knows Voight is watching her, and she avoids his eyes, focusing on the rapidly cooling Kung Pao chicken.

Voight sighs heavily. "Erin, you've gotta eat."

"I'm not hungry," she mutters. She drops the fork and pushes her chair back from the table. "You don't need to babysit me," she says, crossing her arms over her chest. "I can stay here alone while Jay's out with Dawson. I'm not four-years-old."

"Remember our Chinese food nights?" Voight says with a smile, ignoring her outburst. "While Justin was at baseball practice. You, me, and Camille."

Erin swallows hard. "Yeah," she whispers.

Voight shrugs, digs his own fork into some of the food left on her plate. "I guess I missed them."

She does too. Those nights had been among the first in her life where she felt safe. Loved.

"Look, Erin," he says softly. He reaches for her hand, and she lets him take it. "I'm sorry."

She frowns. "For what?"

"Everything," he says ruefully. "I shouldn't have let it get this far. I knew you were struggling, and I should have been there for you. I shouldn't have let you deal with this alone."

"It's not your fault," she whispers, guilt surging through her. Hank is wrong. She should have been able to handle this on her own.

"It is," he says. "You shouldn't have had to go through Nadia's death by yourself." She tenses at the mention of Nadia's name, but Voight doesn't let go of her hand. "You needed help, and I told you to deal with it on your own. And Erin, I'm sorry that I broke you and Jay up."

She sucks in a breath, shakes her head rapidly. "It's okay."

"It's not," he says firmly, and she's taken aback by his confession. "I was wrong. And I hurt you. Both of you. And I'm sorry."

"Why are you suddenly okay with it?" she asks, tears blurring her vision. "With me and Jay?"

He shrugs, smiling sadly. "I realized I was wrong," he says. "Jay's a good guy. And he's good for you. And I know you two are professional enough to make it work." He brushes a tear off her cheek.

"You were right," she chokes. _I've seen what happens to the men you date_. "I'm not good enough for him. I'm going to hurt him."

"No," Voight says firmly. He moves his chair around the table to sit right beside her and grips her shoulders. "Erin, look at me. Jay loves you. You should have seen him while you were gone, Erin. He'd do anything for you, and you need to let him. He needs you."

She doesn't understand how he could possibly need her. All she does is cause pain.

Voight looks horrified, and Erin realizes that she's said that out loud. "Listen to me," he says, so seriously that she feels like she's fifteen-years-old again, and he's scolding her for breaking curfew. "Jay spent 48 hours moving heaven and earth trying to find you. He was devastated when he thought something might have happened to you, Erin. And when he did find you-" Voight's voice cracks, and Erin flinches. _Shit_. "Don't push him away. Don't push me away. Please."

She doesn't know what to say, so she just stares at him with liquid eyes. He holds out his arms, and she moves cautiously towards him.

He presses her face against his chest and holds her like a little girl while she cries.

-o-o-

Jay isn't sure what startled him out of sleep. He lies awake on the couch, listening carefully to try to figure it out. His bedroom-Erin's bedroom-is silent, so it wasn't one of her nightmares. He sits up, looking around anxiously, and then he realizes-the sliding door to the balcony.

He picks his hoodie up off the floor and pulls it over his head, then yanks the afghan from the sofa and heads outside. Erin is curled up on a deck chair, staring out at the city. He wraps the blanket around her shoulders, and she offers him a small, grateful smile before turning back to the skyline.

"Bad dream?" he asks quietly, settling into the second chair.

She shakes her head, her eyes still focused on some point in the distance. "Just couldn't sleep," she says, her voice raspier than normal.

He closes his eyes, the darkness and fresh air comforting and intimate. He's content to just sit here in silence with her when she speaks again. "I'm really sorry, Jay."

He turns to look at her, studying her face. "For what?" he asks softly.

"I didn't want to hurt you," she says. Her voice cracks, but she isn't crying. "With Landon-or with that guy."

He wants to say that she didn't, but that would be lying. And besides, he doesn't want her to think that he doesn't care, that she doesn't have the power to hurt him. He wants to say it's okay, but she knows that it isn't. So instead he says, "I forgive you," and he knows as the words come out that that is what's true.

"How could you forgive that?" she whispers, turning to him for the first time.

He shrugs. "We weren't together," he says. "And I know you didn't do it to hurt me." She did it to hurt herself, which somehow makes it worse. "And it's over, Erin. We're here, now. That's what matters to me."

She nods, blinking back tears. "Why are you so good to me?" she says, so quietly he can barely hear her.

He smiles, leaning closer and pressing his palm to her cheek, his fingers tangling in her hair. "I love you," he says with a shrug.

She wraps her fingers around his wrist, leaning into his palm and closing her eyes, and he's reminded for a second of the night they broke up.

She swallows hard, and turns away, and he feels the loss of contact keenly. He pulls back, trying to suppress a sigh, when she whispers, "That night…"

He frowns, forces himself not to prompt her. His heart beats just a little bit faster. "I just wanted it to go away," she says. "I just-I wanted to stop feeling. So I-I was at my mom's because I couldn't-I couldn't stay in that apartment. And I took some oxy, but it wasn't working, and she didn't have any alcohol, so I cut myself."

Jay flinches hard-he can't help it. She says it so clinically, like she's talking about DNA evidence or traffic statistics.

"And then-I couldn't stay there. And I couldn't go to her bar because…well, there was blood. And I guess—I don't know, I thought she might notice. Or not notice. And either way…so I just found a random one. A bar. And that guy bought me a drink, and I just…" She's silent for so long that Jay thinks she's done talking, but then she keeps going. "I thought that sex would make me stop thinking, just for a little while. I mean...that's why I slept with Landon. So I said...let's get out of here."

She shrugs, chewing on her lip and taking slow, deep breaths. "It was my fault, Jay. I picked him up, and then-I couldn't handle it."

"What do you mean, you couldn't handle it?" Jay asks quietly. He moves a little bit closer to her-close enough so that she knows he's there, but not touching. He's not sure she wants him to touch her now.

"He-he was rough," she says. "I just-after everything, I can't...rough sex is just..." She shakes her head, clears her throat. "I haven't been able to have rough sex since I was...well…it always just freaks me out, I guess."

Jay's heart clenches, but he forces himself to stay silent, even though this hurts. It hurts so badly.

"I said no, but...I don't think he heard me," she whispers. "I'd already said yes, and...I tried to push him off, but he was too big, and so I just...I don't know."

He wants to scream at the way she says _I don't think he heard me_. At the way she dismisses this, like what that animal did was okay, like she'd asked for it.

"How did you end up-" _bleeding out on your kitchen floor_ , he thinks, but stops short. "Back home?" he finishes lamely.

"I don't know, when he was finished I guess I just bolted. And I just-I don't really remember. I think I just wanted it all to go away," she says. "I'm sorry," she adds. "I didn't want you to-I'm sorry you had to find me like that."

"I'm not," he says harshly, then swallows hard, takes a deep breath. "I'm not," he says again. "You're here. That's enough for me."

He moves to sit beside her on her chair and carefully wraps his arm around her, holding his breath. He releases it when she slowly leans against his shoulder, and they stare off into the night.

-o-o-

Erin wakes up when the light filters in through the cracks in Jay's blinds. She's only slept for a few hours, but there were no nightmares, and she takes that as an accomplishment.

She splashes water on her face and walks slowly into the living room. She's a little nervous about facing Jay this morning, after her confession last night. She's not sure what prompted her to tell him the story that she knows he's been dying to hear, but now it's out there, and she doesn't know how she feels about that.

Jay is sprawled on the couch, nursing a mug of coffee and watching hockey highlights on SportsCenter, but he sits up when he sees her and sets the cup on the table. "Hey," he says, offering her a tentative smile and muting the TV. "You sleep okay?"

"Yeah," she says, trying to smile back. "You?"

"Yeah," he says.

They're silent for a moment, staring at each other, and strangely, Erin isn't afraid of the intimacy. It's Jay who breaks the eye contact, leaping to his feet. "I made coffee," he says. "It's not the best coffee in the world, but I do have a fairly significant amount of sugar that you can dump in."

She almost manages a laugh. Almost. "Thanks," she says, sitting down and curling up in the corner of the couch. She pulls Jay's pillow to her chest and inhales deeply, closing her eyes.

She opens them when Jay returns, holding her coffee. She smiles her thanks and wraps her palms around the mug. Jay sits back down next to her, and she feels oddly disappointed that he leaves a few inches between them.

"So...Ruzek texted me," Jay says, and she can feel him hesitating. "He-um...he and Kim wanted to know if we'd maybe come get brunch with them?"

Erin's heart beats just a little faster. It's one thing to sit in this cozy apartment with Voight and Jay, or to talk to a randomly assigned therapist, but it's by far another to go out in public and face her friends. Her former co-workers. She can't handle the looks they'll give her, the pity, the confusion. And she doesn't want to have to talk about it, or worse, talk around it-they all lost Nadia too, and they seem to have moved on just fine. She's not sure how to explain to them why she can't do the same.

"I can't," she says, stilted and anxious. "I'm sorry, I just-I can't."

"Okay," Jay says. He doesn't push her, doesn't demand an explanation.

"You should go though," she says, forcing herself to nod and smile. "You should go, I'm okay. You shouldn't have to-stay here. I'm okay."

He smiles at her. "I know you are," he says. He wraps his arm around her and kisses her temple. "But I'd rather stay here with you anyway."

-o-o-


	5. Chapter 5

Hi everyone! Thank you all so much for your very sweet and encouraging reviews! I really do appreciate them all!

I am going on vacation, so this story will be taking a brief hiatus—but it will be back in a few weeks! Hope everyone is having a great summer!

-o-o-

"When are you going back to work?" Erin asks abruptly over breakfast one morning. It's early-not even 7:00, and they have nowhere to be, but Erin had woken up _screaming_ at 5:30, and neither of them had felt like going back to sleep.

Jay shoves a forkful of eggs into his mouth and chews slowly, stalling. She hasn't mentioned work since the day she went to therapy and punched a wall-he's still concerned that she may have broken something, but the swelling has mostly gone down, so he's stopped asking about it.

He doesn't want her to feel like he's hovering over her, or smothering her-but he's also unwilling to leave her alone. Not yet. She seems to be making progress-last night notwithstanding, she's been sleeping a little better. She's talking more, eating when he makes food, and yesterday she even went for a walk with him. But he doesn't trust her on her own. He doesn't know what could trigger her, doesn't know what tiny event or obstacle will send her spiraling back down the rabbit hole.

He still doesn't know exactly how she fell so far and so hard in the first place.

"Maybe in a couple weeks," he finally says, aiming for casual. "I had a lot of furlough stored up. And it's nice, you know, to get a break after everything."

"Jay," Erin sighs, staring at him disappointedly. He knows she can see right through him. "Stop with the bullshit. The unit's shorthanded. You should go back to work. I'm sure Voight wants you back."

Actually, Voight's worked out some sort of arrangement where this doesn't even count as vacation time. Which makes Jay feel a little bit bad-he's getting paid to sit around, hang out with the girl he loves, and do absolutely nothing. But-not bad enough to complain or anything.

"He actually thought it would be good if I stayed with you," Jay says, somewhat reluctantly. He doesn't want to lie to her. He doesn't want to treat her like she's incapable or an invalid.

Erin's face contorts in fury instantly, and he cringes. "I'm not a child," she barks. "Maybe what would be _good_ is if the two of you stopped talking about me. And if you would just give me a little fucking space, for once."

Jay tries not to let that hurt him. But-she's pushing him. And it's early, and he's tired, and he's worried, and he hasn't been sleeping well either, and for some reason he can't help pushing back. "Well, maybe you should go back to your place then, if you need space," he says. He regrets the words and the tone the second they're out of his mouth.

He doesn't know what prompts him to say that. He's spent the last two weeks wondering if she would ever bring up going to her apartment, finally coming to the conclusion that she doesn't want to go home. That her lack of protest over their current living arrangement is a sign: for whatever reason, she doesn't want to stay in that apartment. She hasn't even mentioned going by there to pick up more clothes, or books, or anything.

The mask of anger drops, and for a second, Erin's face crumbles, and she looks absolutely devastated. Jay wants to kick himself. Very carefully, without looking at him, she sets her fork down on the table and stands up.

"Erin, I'm sorry," he calls desperately after her, but she disappears into his bedroom, closing the door with a firm click behind her.

-o-o-

"Is there anything you'd like to talk about today?" Dr. Carraway asks, smiling warmly as Erin curls up into the corner of the leather couch.

Erin shakes her head, wrapping her sweater more tightly around herself. She's gotten better at this therapy thing, but she's still not willing to volunteer any information unless specifically prompted. And besides—it's already been a shitty morning. She doesn't feel like putting herself out there.

"Okay. How about we talk a little about your mother then?"

Erin can literally feel her walls going up. Her whole body tenses and her eyes narrow. "What about her?" she says shortly.

The therapist shrugs. "It seems she's played an important role in your life. Did you live with her, growing up?"

"When she was around," Erin says, her tone clipped and defensive.

"What do you mean by that?" Dr. Carraway presses.

"My mother was a drug addict," Erin says sharply. "As I'm sure you know." She doesn't understand why Dr. Carraway asks questions that she already knows the answers to. It really pisses her off. "Most of the time she was either high or out searching for heroin or PCP or meth, or whatever she could get her fucking hands on. She used to disappear for months doing whatever. So yeah, I guess when she was not out trying to score, I lived with her."

"Where did you live?"

Erin shifts uncomfortably. "Bunch of shitty apartments on the west side, when she felt like paying rent. She'd find a boyfriend, or get married, and we'd move in with whoever the asshole was for a couple months. I don't know. She was gone a lot, and I'd stay with friends or...wherever."

"Wherever?"

"On the street," Erin says vaguely, waving her hand dismissively. "In warehouses, abandoned buildings." Dr. Carraway looks sad, and Erin feels immediately defensive. "Look, it's just how it was, okay? There's no point feeling bad about it."

"Were you ever in foster care?" the therapist inquires curiously. Erin shakes her head. "Why not?"

"I don't know," Erin says, shaking her head. Because it had never occurred to her to tell anyone. "I-we weren't supposed to tell, I guess. Whenever she disappeared, I'd just-I don't know, shoplift, I guess. Or…" Or sell herself on the street. Or move in with Charlie. "I always just knew not to call the police, I guess. Or to tell anyone, cause they'd take me away."

"Would that have been so bad?"

Erin stares at her. She's suddenly having trouble breathing. "Are you-do you think that it was my fault?" she says after a moment.

And maybe it is. Maybe if she'd said something-to a teacher, to a friend, to a cop-when she was six or nine or twelve, maybe everything would have turned out differently. Maybe if she'd called 911 those times her mother overdosed. Or if she'd gone to a shelter when her mom disappeared and the landlord had kicked her out. Her path would have been different, and it never would have intersected with Voight or Jay or Nadia.

"No," Dr. Carraway says firmly. "I absolutely do not think that. What I'm asking is why you thought it would have been so bad to be taken away from your mother, even when she couldn't take care of you?"

Erin chews on her thumb. "She's my _mom_ ," she says with a shrug. She's aware she sounds like a whiny little kid, but she can't help it. "I didn't know that it was supposed to be different."

"Do you now?" the doctor says curiously.

"Yeah," Erin says. She knows this is a test. "But she's still my mom. I can't-she'll always be there, I guess." _There_ , in her head, over her shoulder, interfering in her job and her relationships and her life.

"Can you tell me a story about your mom?" Dr. Carraway says. Erin looks at her blankly. _A story_? "Anything you remember. Just a memory from your childhood."

Erin bites her lip. A story pops into her mind, and before she knows it, it's spilling out of her. "When I was eight, we had DARE in school. You know, that program about staying away from drugs. And nobody else really knew what drugs were, but-I did. I mean, I didn't know what they were exactly, but I knew my mom was using them. I guess I knew what they did to her-the mood swings and the hitting us and the passing out on the floor. But they told us at DARE that drugs were bad for you. That they could kill you, that they could make you do crazy things."

She sighs, turning towards the window. It's a really nice day-spring has finally arrived, and it's warm and sunny and pretty outside. "That really scared me," she says finally. "The thought of my mom dying. Cause my dad had just gone to prison, and...I guess my mom had told me that he'd be there forever. And I didn't know what would happen to me if she died. So I knew that she couldn't die, so I knew I had to get rid of her drugs.

"So, I went home, and she wasn't there, as usual. And I found her stash—she always kept it in a drawer in her bedroom. I don't think there was a lot there…I don't remember. And I don't remember what it was-I mean, she did absolutely everything. But I think I found some pills, and maybe some coke, and I flushed them down the toilet. And I knew she'd be mad-I mean, she was always mad, she was always yelling and throwing things. But she came home in the middle of the night, and she just lost it. She asked me where her stash was, and I said I didn't know, and she started…"

Erin pauses, realizes she's digging her fingernails into her palms like she used to do when she was a little girl and her mother would do things that scared her. She forces herself to relax her hands, then stands up and walks over to the window, staring out at the parking lot below.

"She opened a cabinet, and she started picking up glasses and plates and throwing them at the wall. We didn't have that many, but she broke all of them, screaming the entire time. I think she broke everything in the house. There was just glass everywhere. And I pulled my brother Teddy into the bathroom, which was the only door that locked, and we just sat there, in the bathtub, listening to her scream." She shakes her head, eyes glazed over. She's a little girl, back in that dirty bathroom, clutching her five-year-old brother to her chest and trying not to listen to the glass shattering outside. "Teddy was scared, so I couldn't be."

She blinks hard, clearing the picture from her mind. "When she stopped screaming, I went out to make sure that she was okay. And she was lying on the ground in all this broken glass, shaking, blood everywhere. She was in withdrawal, but I didn't know that, and I'd just gotten rid of her drugs. She was crying, saying she was going to die, and begging me to help her. And I didn't know what to do, but I knew I couldn't call 911. I just kept crying—begging her not to die. And finally…" Erin swallows hard. She's not sure why, but this is the part of the story that bothers her the most. "Finally she said that I needed to get her some medicine. That's what she called it. But that I couldn't just go to the drugstore. And she told me to take all the money from her purse, and go to this alley. She told me who to look for."

Erin finally turns back to her therapist, who is watching her. She shrugs. "That was the first time I bought drugs," she says.

-o-o-

"Thanks, man," Will says, as Jay hands him one of the coffees he picked up for them at the Einstein's down the block. "You look tired," he observes, as they sit at the crooked green picnic table behind the Chicago Med parking lot.

"Thanks," Jay says drily, taking a sip of his own large coffee. He stares blankly at the hospital's brick wall, willing the caffeine through his system.

Tired doesn't cover it. He's so freaking exhausted.

"So it's going well?" Will says with mild amusement. Jay shakes his head and forces himself to sit up straight and face his older brother.

"I did something stupid this morning," he says reluctantly. Will quirks an eyebrow, and he sighs. "I may have implied that I thought she should go back to her place."

Will purses his lips in a shrug. "Well, do you think she should go back to her place?"

"No!" Jay says quickly. "No, not at all. I really _don't_ want her to go back to her place. That's the last thing I want. And I told her that in the car on the way here, but now she won't hear that. Now she thinks I don't want her. But she was pushing at me to go back to work, and I just…" 

"Why _don't_ you go back to work?" Will says curiously.

Jay stares at him like he has two heads. "Because two weeks ago she went on a bender and slit her wrists. She would have died if I hadn't come over. I'm not leaving her alone."

Will nods. "Yeah," he says, taking a big gulp of his coffee. "I get that. But-it must be hard for her, knowing that you don't trust her."

Jay gapes at him. "Of course I trust her," he says indignantly. "I trust her with my life. I'm just-"

"Not sure you trust her with her life?" Will says wryly. Jay makes a face at him. "Jay, you're not her mother."

"You're right, I'm not!" Jay says, his voice rising. "Her mother is a good-for-nothing junkie who abandoned her as a kid and then hooked her up with a fucking drug dealer after her best friend died!"

Will holds up both palms in surrender. "Look, man, you've both been through a lot. You're feeling protective of her, and I understand that. I'm sure she understands that. But it might be better for both of you if you try to give each other a little space, you know? Show her that you believe in her."

Jay lets that sink in. "I'm scared," he admits finally. "I just keep replaying that day in my head. You know, what if I hadn't found her when I did? What if she'd cut a little bit deeper?"

"Aren't you the one who's been telling Erin she can't think about the what-ifs?" Will reminds him. "It turned out okay. You can't keep thinking about what might have happened if it didn't, and unless you think she's actively suicidal, it seems like the best way to handle this might be to do what she wants. Give her back some control, you know? Right now, she probably thinks you're treating her like a kid."

Jay sighs and turns away, bouncing his leg up and down. He is. He knows that. She's been complaining that he's babysitting her, and he is. And it's driving both of them crazy.

But the thought of leaving her alone... He swallows hard and takes a big sip of his coffee.

When did everything get so hard?

-o-o-

Erin pushes her pasta from one side of the plate to the other, eyes determinedly fixed on her half-empty water glass. She's barely said two words to Jay since she left him at the breakfast table this morning. He's tried to get her to talk, and when that failed, he'd tried to get her to go for a walk, and then to play video games, and then to watch a movie, but she'd shaken her head and gone into his bedroom, closing the door behind her. Today's therapy session had been exhausting and impossible, and she doesn't have the emotional energy to discuss her feelings with Jay, too.

Erin has fought her way through hell before. She'd moved into the Voights' home as a bruised, battered, and emotionally destroyed teenager-addicted to heroin, trapped in an abusive relationship, selling herself on street corners. And she'd gotten through it. She'd moved on-she'd gone to school, she'd created a home, she'd built a career, and she'd pushed the past into the past. _All that stuff's behind me_ , she'd told the little girl they'd rescued from the pedophile trafficking ring that had ruined her brother. _Everything's okay now._

But it's not. It's not at all. Erin never expected to have to face her past again, and she doesn't know how to do it. She doesn't know how to unbury the painful pieces of her life and stare them down. Not when they've been hidden away for so long.

"Listen," Jay says, startling her. "Sorry. Um, I was thinking about what you said. About going back to work." Erin looks up at him warily. He looks worried and sorry and sad, and it makes her ache. "I talked to Voight, and I'm going to go back on Monday."

"Oh," she manages, surprised. "Good. That's good."

"But I want you to stay here," he says. "Please? It's not that I don't trust you. I do. I promise. I trust you more than anyone. I just-I'm worried about you, and I don't want you to be alone, okay? And…" he shrugs, offering her a small smile. "I like having you here. I've missed you."

She looks at him sadly. "Jay, I don't know if I can go back to my apartment," she says, in a strange burst of honesty. "Maybe ever."

"I know," he says. "It's okay. We'll figure it out."

She stares at him, wondering how he always knows what to say. He's too good for her. She doesn't deserve him.

"How's your pasta?" he asks, indicating her untouched plate. "My mom's recipe. She used to make this on birthdays when I was a kid."

She swallows hard, then spears a few penne on her fork and chews slowly. "It's good," she says. She tries to smile. "It's really good."

Jay starts talking about the Blackhawks, and Erin smiles for real. For a few minutes, everything feels normal.

-o-o-

"Erin?" Jay says, venturing cautiously into the bedroom. She's curled up in a ball on her side, shaking with sobs, muffling her face in a pillow. He isn't quite sure how he heard her, but he's so attuned to her broken sleeping patterns that he wakes when she does.

Maybe he's just attuned to her.

She doesn't turn to look at him, and he sighs and sits beside her on the bed, feeling useless. He watches her cry for a few minutes before he can't take it anymore. He lies down and curls around her, pressing his palm to her abdomen, just like he'd done that terrible night in the hospital. She tenses for a second, then relaxes into his embrace.

"I'm sorry," she chokes. "I'm so sorry, Jay. I'm such a pain. You shouldn't have to go through this."

"Neither should you," he murmurs.

"I'm sorry about today," she sobs. "I shouldn't have snapped at you. You were right, and I'm sorry."

"You were right too," he says, nuzzling his nose into her hair. She smells like honey and almonds, and he inhales deeply. "I trust you. I'm just scared. I just can't lose you, Erin."

She shakes her head, unable to speak through her tears. "Jay, I don't know if I can get back to who I used to be," she manages finally. "Who you knew. I know you say you love me, but...what if I'm not that person? There's just-when I talk to that therapist, and the things she brings up-my mother, and the drugs, and what I did as a kid, and Nadia. It's just too much."

"Remember that you made it through before," Jay says gently. "You made it through fifteen years ago, without even knowing how strong you were, or how smart or how talented. That's who you are, Erin. And nothing that happens to you can change that."

She turns over in his arms, snuggling against him and pressing her forehead to his chest. "I was dreaming about Nadia," she says quietly into his T-shirt. Jay's breath hitches in his throat, but he doesn't speak. "I keep dreaming about what happened. You know, what he talked about in the courtroom? I just-I see it, and every time, it's like I'm there, but I can't stop it. I'm watching, and I can see everything, and I can hear her...she must have been so scared, Jay. It must have hurt so much. But I can't do anything. I can't save her."

He holds her tighter, tangling his fingers in her hair and swallowing down the lump of pain in his chest. It had been hard for him to sit in that courtroom and listen to Yates savor the memories of brutalizing Nadia-he can't imagine what it had felt like for Erin. Her face had gone completely bloodless, and all he'd been able to do was put a hand on her knee and pray for it to be over.

"It's not your fault," he whispers, because that's all he can say. "You did everything you could, Erin, and you need to realize that. It isn't your fault. You couldn't have saved her."

"I just wish it had been me," she says, and though she's told him this before, it still hits him like a knife to the gut. "It should have been me."

He can't say that he's thankful it wasn't her, although he is, and if that makes him a horrible person then so be it. All he can do is run his hand up and down her back and whisper, "But it wasn't you, Erin. And you have to find a way to go on. Nadia wouldn't want you to stop living because she isn't here. She'd want you to go on, for her." It feels weird to say her name after avoiding it for so long.

She chokes down a shaky breath, clutching his shirt between her fingers like a security blanket. "Please don't leave me," she whispers, her voice so sad that tears spring to his eyes.

"I won't," he manages, pressing his lips to her temple. "I'll never leave you, Erin."

It's a strange thing to say, he knows. They aren't even technically together right now. But he still knows it's true. He'll never leave her. No matter what.

-o-o-

Erin drifts slowly into consciousness, feeling warm and safe and comfortable. Feeling alive. It's the best she's felt in weeks. Her nose is pressed against a solid wall of muscle, and without opening her eyes, she breathes in deeply.

He still smells the same.

God, she's _missed_ him.

She cuddles further into his body, and he tightens his arms around her, sighing contentedly. She smiles, burrowing her nose into his chest.

"Morning," he murmurs, his voice low and sexy in her ear. And suddenly, she finds herself wishing his T-shirt wasn't in her way.

But then-why does it have to be? Voight has essentially given his blessing. Jay's promised her he loves her, that he won't leave her, no matter how damaged she is. What's stopping her?

He wants her. She can feel him against her thigh, and it makes her feel real, and important, and _needed_. And so she slides her palms under the soft worn fabric of his favorite Bears T-shirt, up his chiseled back, gripping and massaging and appreciating. His lips turn into a smile against her temple, so she slides her fingers down, slowly, slowly, until they reach the waistband of his sweatpants.

She inches her body up, until her lips meet his throat. "Erin," he whispers as she nips at his collarbone, at the tendons in his neck, at his jawline.

He isn't reciprocating, but she barely notices that. She feels good, and this is good, and so she continues, until her lips come home to his, until her tongue slides into his mouth.

She moans as he kisses her gently, tenderly, his fingers gliding into her hair. He pulls away after a few minutes and kisses her eyelids, her cheeks, her nose.

He loves her. No one's ever said that to her before. And she thinks that maybe she loves him too.

She lets her fingers creep into his boxers, rubs her thumbs against the sharp bones of his hips.

And that's when he jerks away.

At first she thinks he's just oversensitive. Overstimulated. She thinks she's making him feel good. She egotistically assumes that he hasn't slept with anyone in the last three months, that he just wants her that badly.

But then he glides his hands down to hers and interlaces their fingers, pulling her away from him. She giggles, sliding her tongue around his earlobe in a way she knows drives him crazy. "What are you doing?" she rasps huskily, squeezing his hands.

"Erin, we have to stop," he whispers.

"No we don't," she assures him, trying to disentangle her fingers from his. Holding hands is sweet, but she wants their hands to be doing other-better-things.

"Erin," he sighs, gently pushing her off of him.

Her blood runs cold, and she sits up and scrambles away from him. Jay sits up too, looking sad and apologetic and incredibly turned on, but he keeps a safe distance from her. She gapes at him, eyes wide, heart pounding with terror.

"Erin, we can't do this now," he says mournfully. He reaches out to touch her face, but she pulls away abruptly.

"I'm sorry," she says, shaking her head to clear it. "I-you said you forgave me, and I thought...I thought…"

"I do," he says, moving to try to meet her eyes. She can't look at him. "Erin, what happened with Landon-it's nothing. We weren't together, and it's in the past. I-it's nothing, I promise you that."

She nods rapidly. "But that other guy-that's too much, right? You can't-I picked up a stranger in a bar, and you can't-you can't…"

"What?" he gasps. "Erin, I'm not-"

"I would probably be disgusted too if you had picked up some random girl in a bar," she says, feeling her eyes flood with tears. "It's okay, I just-"

She has to get away, right now. She tries to get off the bed, to get out of this room, out of this apartment, but before she can move, Jay grips her biceps firmly, startling her into looking at him.

"Erin, that is not it at all," he says, and he sounds a little desperate. "I am not disgusted. I am not angry. I'm just-I don't want to hurt you, okay?"

She shakes her head, tears blurring her vision. She's not following.

"Erin, I just don't want to pressure you. I don't want you to do anything that you're not ready for, okay?" She continues to stare at him blankly. Pressure her? She's the one who started this. "Erin, you were raped a few weeks ago," he says quietly.

She thinks he might keep talking, but she immediately stops listening. The tears stop abruptly, and she can feel her whole body shutting down.

"No, I wasn't," she says, her voice far away.

Jay's mouth opens and closes like a fish. "Erin-" he tries, but she cuts him off.

"I told you what happened," she says emotionlessly. "I wasn't raped."

"You told me you said no, but that that guy held you down and forced you," Jay says, anger creeping into his voice. She flinches, turning her head away from him. "Erin, you had bruises all over you. You-you went home afterwards and sliced your wrist open."

She stares blankly at the wall. "Nadia was raped," she says, the remnants of last night's dream filtering through her brain. "I wasn't."

She pulls away from Jay's grip and climbs off the bed. On auto-pilot, she yanks her jacket off the hook by the door and leaves.

-o-o-


	6. Chapter 6

Hello! I apologize for the absurdly long delay! My vacation was amazing, but then this chapter gave me all sorts of trouble. Just a warning, it's a bit maudlin, and not the easiest read. So…sorry! But I do anticipate a light at the end of the tunnel! Thanks for reading and reviewing everyone—I really appreciate all the encouragement!

-o-o-

"Antonio says there's no sign of her in the park," Voight says with a heavy sigh. "Says he checked everywhere."

Jay hunches over the kitchen table, burying his face in his hands and massaging his temples with his fingers. It's getting harder and harder to suppress the panic rippling at the edges of his brain. To fight the feeling that this has happened before, and _look how it ended last time._

She's been gone for nearly four hours. He has the entire team out searching everywhere he can think of, and while he knows this is an overreaction, he can't control himself. The look on her face when she walked out the door terrifies him, and all he can think about is her with a needle in her vein, or a knife in her hands, or at the bottom of the lake.

She wouldn't hurt herself, he tells himself. She said she wouldn't do that, promised him. She just needed some air, some space, some time to process.

God, why didn't he just give her what she wanted this morning? Why didn't he just kiss her and hold her and make love to her? The worst part is, it's what he wanted too, and instead, he's turned it into _this_.

"Halstead?" Voight's voice on the phone silences his thoughts. "She's gonna be okay."

"She's not," he croaks, his voice hoarse from crying. "I don't know how to help her. I can't do this. What if she-"

He's interrupted by a scattered, frantic knocking at his front door. His heart nearly stops. "Oh, God," he gasps, stubbing his toe on the table and tripping over a shoe as he rushes for it. "Someone's at the door. Someone-"

He flings it open, certain it's a patrol officer, hat in hand. Instead-

"Oh, thank God," he chokes, yanking her inside and into his arms. "Oh, thank God. She's here, Hank. She's here. I'll call you back."

He hangs up his phone without waiting for a response and crushes her to his chest, holding her so tightly that he's certain she can't breathe, but he doesn't care. "Please don't do that to me again," he begs, tangling his fingers in her hair and pressing her face to his chest. He desperately moves his hands up and down her body, frantically touching her as if she might disappear any second. "God, Erin, please. Please don't do that. I was so scared. Oh, my God."

He pulls her away from his chest to check her over. She doesn't appear to have any visible injuries—no bruises or cuts—and her clothes are straight and all in one piece, but her face-oh, God, her face.

Her eyes are bloodshot, puffy, and vacant. She's struggling to stay upright, now that he's no longer holding her, and he realizes-she's drunk.

Really drunk. Drunker than he's ever seen her.

"Erin," he chokes, unable to stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks. He hugs her again, trying to comfort her or himself. He isn't really sure. "Shhh, shhh," he whispers, although she isn't crying.

He guides her to the couch and sits her down on the cushions like a ragdoll. "Okay, okay," he says to himself, trying to focus, trying to calm down. "I'm going to get you some water, okay?" She stares blankly at the wall, and he wonders if he should call Voight, or Will, or maybe her therapist. He's never seen her like this-never seen anyone like this, and it's scaring him. "Okay," he says, nodding to himself when she offers no response. "Okay, water."

She came to him, he reminds himself, as his shaking hands hold a glass under the sink. She came back here, she came home to him. That means it has to be okay. It just has to.

He forces himself to take ten slow, deep breaths before walking back into the living room. Okay. Okay.

-o-o-

Erin's head isn't connected to her body. It's floating far away, spinning and tumbling and aching. Lost.

Jay is talking to her, she thinks, but she can't hear him. She can't see anything, can't feel anything. Her tongue is dry, and she focuses on the sensation of it sticking to the roof of her mouth. Stick. Stick.

Fingers squeeze her bare arm, and she feels them like she's wearing layers and layers of heavy winter clothing. Distant, far away. A voice echoes in her ear, and she cuts it off to say, "I've been raped before."

She thinks she said that out loud, but she isn't really sure. She keeps going-in her head or not, it doesn't really matter. "A lot, maybe. I don't know." Her thoughts are disjointed and messy and incoherent, her memories coming in angry flashes. "I was a hooker, you know. Not like organized. I didn't have a pimp or anything. I was like-I don't know, 14. And I wasn't on drugs. It wasn't for drugs. But Bunny was gone, she just left, I don't know why. She never said. And I needed money. Mo-ney. And I got arrested for shoplifting, I mean, like, a bunch of times. So I just started hooking. Not for long. Couple months, I don't know."

She's feeling dizzy, like her brain is a balloon bouncing in the wind, on a flimsy string over her neck. She pictures a needle piercing it, or maybe a bullet. She sees it popping, exploding, the pieces floating to the ground.

"It didn't seem weird," she continues. "I mean, _plenty_ of people were hooking. Annie. Like everyone, you know? That's like-it wasn't weird. I promise. And I'd had sex. Like, a lot, I guess." She giggles. Or sobs. Hard to tell. "I shouldn't tell you that. You're not supposed to tell nice boys that, but I did. Lots of sex. So, doing it for money was like, whatever, I guess."

She leans back against the couch, eyes drifting to the ceiling. There's a little brown speck right above her, and her eyes focus on it, in and out and in and out, until her temple pulses with pain. What was she doing?

"Men are rough, you know?" she says, and the thought makes her laugh for some reason. "Sometimes they hit you, or whatever. And one time someone just dragged me behind a tree in the park and fucked me, even though I said no. That was rape, you know? I know that was rape. And then Charlie-I mean, Voight says that he raped me, but that's just cause he was older than me. I said okay though. It was okay. And the drugs. I guess the drugs. There were drugs."

Why is she talking about this again?

Right. Jay. She's with Jay, and he thinks she was raped. And she wasn't. Well, not this time. That's what she's doing. She's setting him straight.

"So this wasn't, you know?" she says. She turns toward him, but it's hard to focus on his eyes, hard to find his face. Is she facing the right direction? He's still there, right? "I went to a bar, and I got dru-unk. And he-he bought me a drink. And I drank it. I did. And then I said, let's get out of here. That was me. I just wanted him to fuck me so I'd stop thinking about her, about everything, but when we got to his place he threw me on the bed and got on top of me. And it hurt, and I got freaked. Because I don't like it rough. Because of the guy. In the park. And the other guys. I don't think I told you that. I don't know. You were never rough."

She bends over, puts her head between her knees. Her brain really is spinning. It's a strange feeling and she isn't sure if the room is moving, or if she is. She keeps talking to the bottom of the couch between her calves. "I just said stop, because I wanted to feel better but he made me feel worse. But I don't think he heard me. And I said it too late. I'd said yes and then he didn't hear no. And I tried to push him off because he was hurting me, but he was strong. And I wasn't. I wasn't."

She forces herself to sit up, because she needs Jay to hear this, wherever he is. She's still talking, right? The blood rushes to her brain, and she can barely keep herself upright, but she manages to say, "He didn't rape me, Jay. It wasn't rape. It was just rough sex, and I don't like rough sex, I don't, but I had asked for it. I told him it was okay before. Before. So you can't-you can't think it was rape, okay? You can't. It's not good for you. Not good."

The entire room jolts wildly, like a boat, or a plane about to crash. "I'm going to be sick," she manages.

-o-o-

Jay slumps on the bathroom floor, unable to get up. Erin is passed out in his lap, her body limp and warm. Her chest rises and falls slowly, evenly, and he can't take his eyes off of that proof of life. His hand grips her thin arm so tightly he's worried he might bruise her, but he can't let go. It's the only thing keeping him grounded. Keeping him sane.

Listening to her talk had been absolute agony. She was barely making any sense, and somehow, that had made it even worse. He'd tried to prompt her, tried to ask questions, but she hadn't even seemed to hear him.

He wants to throw up as well, but one of them needs to hold it together now. Instead, he manages to pull his phone out of his back pocket. His hands are trembling so badly it takes three tries before he can unlock it. Voight's called six times.

He calls him back, and his boss picks up on the first ring. "Is she okay?" his sergeant barks by way of greeting.

"No," Jay chokes. "No, she's really drunk, and she talked about being raped when she was a kid and then she threw up and passed out. I don't know what to do." His nerves are frayed, and he can barely manage to get the words out. He's an Army veteran and a freaking detective, but he just cannot handle this.

"Okay," Voight says decisively. "Okay, I'll be right there."

He's not sure how much time passes. He doesn't think it's much, until suddenly Voight and Olinsky are crowding into the bathroom, hovering over him, reaching for Erin. Jay flinches, tightening his hold on her. "Hey, kid, it's okay," Olinsky says, putting a firm hand on his shoulder. Voight reaches down and easily picks Erin up, carrying her away. Erin doesn't even stir.

Olinsky helps Jay stand on shaky legs, then guides him out towards the bedroom. He stands in the doorway, watching Voight tuck Erin into the unmade bed and tenderly stroke her hair back from her sleeping face. It's a moment he never could have envisioned when he first met his gruff, angry sergeant. "How much did she have to drink?" Voight asks hoarsely.

"I don't know," Jay manages. "I...she was really out of it. She threw up a lot, and then she passed out. I didn't see any track marks, but I don't know if she took something."

"I couldn't reach your brother," Voight tells him, sinking down onto the bed beside Erin. "Antonio called his sister. She's coming over."

"You don't think we should take her to the hospital?" Jay worries, staring at her prone figure.

"Let's see what Dawson has to say," Voight says.

"What happened?"Olinsky asks gently.

Jay lets his legs give out, collapsing onto the corner of the bed. He buries his face in his hands. "She kissed me," he says, his voice muffled. "She-she wanted to have sex, and I said no." He can't believe he's telling this to Voight, but that's where they are right now. "She asked why, and I said…" He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. "I said she'd been raped a few weeks ago, and we couldn't. She just-she just shut down. Disappeared. She said she wasn't raped, and then she just ran out the door before I could stop her."

He turns to Voight, whose face is blank. Unreadable. "Maybe I was wrong," he says desperately. "That day at the hospital. Maybe we should have told her to press charges. Maybe then she'd...see. I don't know."

Olinsky and Voight exchange a look, and Jay sighs. "You found him, didn't you?" he says. He should have known that.

There's a long moment of silence, and Jay looks slowly, warily, between his two superiors. Finally, Olinsky cracks. "Mouse pulled a photo from a security cam outside the bar," he admits. "We put it through facial recognition and found the guy."

"What'd you do?" Jay asks slowly.

"Nothing he didn't deserve," Voight growls.

There's a knock on the door, and Olinsky goes to answer it as Jay stares at Voight. Voight stares right back, until Olinsky returns with Antonio, his sister, and Sylvie Brett.

He isn't sure what to think or what to say. But it doesn't matter right now. All that matters is Erin.

-o-o-

Erin jerks away as a light flashes in her eyes. She grunts, fighting the light as pain shoots through her brain.

Oh, God, ow. What the hell?

"Erin," a voice says gently. "Hey, Erin, can you open your eyes?"

It's his voice. And she doesn't know what happened, or where the hell she is, or what is going on, but she knows intuitively that he shouldn't still be here with her. Knows that she's pushed him so hard and so far that he should have left long ago.

But he's still here.

She groans, tries to blink her eyes open, but it hurts too much.

"Shhh," he says, and a warm palm presses against her cheek. "You're okay, sweetie. It's okay."

She doesn't think anyone has ever called her sweetie before-not in a good way, anyway. It's nice. She leans into his hand and concentrates on the soothing tones of his voice and lets herself drift back to sleep.

-o-o-

"Well, pupils are reactive to light," Gabby says, shoving her penlight back into her bag. "She'll be okay. I can start an IV and try to get some fluids into her, but that's pretty much all we can do."

Jay nods, rubbing his thumb against her cheekbone. Her face is so pale. "You're sure she's okay." She looks very, very far from okay.

"She's going to have a monster hangover," Gabby says ruefully. "Can you start a banana bag, Sylvie? But she'll be fine. I promise."

Jay slumps against the headboard, watching Erin sleep. All the adrenaline is gone now, and he just feels exhausted and shaky and numb. He observes distantly as Sylvie starts an IV. He thinks he manages a thank-you before the two paramedics leave.

He can feel Voight, Alvin, and Antonio watching him, but he's too drained to move. Emotions flood him—anger and grief and fear and pain—but all he can do is watch them go by like cars passing on a highway. He's too tired to engage with anything.

"It's just a setback, Jay," Antonio says. "You said she's been doing well, right?"

"Apparently not," Jay says bitterly, shaking his head. "I thought-I thought she was talking to me. Last night-she talked about Nadia, she _told_ me stuff. But then-she just shuts down. It was like she just...she just _left_."

Well, maybe he's able to engage with his anger.

"All right, Halstead, take a deep breath," Voight says firmly, and Halstead sees red.

Olinsky grips his shoulder before he can explode. "Take a break, Jay," he says, his voice fatherly and soothing. "It's been a rough day. Go get some air."

"Come on," Antonio says, waving towards the door. "Let's get out of here for a bit."

Jay shakes his head, clutching Erin's hand between both of his. "I'm not leaving her," he says petulantly. He sounds like a little kid, he knows, but he's tired and stressed and _upset_ and he can't help it.

"Come on," Antonio says again, in a tone that leaves no room for argument. "We'll go for a walk. Twenty minutes. Voight's gonna stay with her. She'll be fine."

Jay stares down at her still face for another minute. She looks peaceful.

Safe.

He kisses her palm, climbs off the bed, and follows Antonio out of the apartment without looking back.

-o-o-

Erin's head is _throbbing._ Little fireworks are bursting behind her eyes, and she's pretty sure that someone is drilling into her temples. She moans, rolling over and pressing her face into the pillow. The slight pressure of the soft down only makes it hurt more.

"Here," a voice says, and she jumps, eyes flying open and then slamming shut at the intrusion of sunlight. "Water. And some Tylenol."

Erin slowly rolls onto her back and forces herself to open her eyes, despite the agony it causes. She's lying in Jay's bed, and Voight is sitting beside her, watching her. He doesn't look angry, just sad. _Shit_. She can still taste the scotch—and the vomit—in her mouth. She doesn't remember finishing off the bottle, but she's pretty sure she did. _Shit._

She swallows, with some difficulty, and forces herself to say, "I'm sorry." It's so quiet she can barely hear herself, but she knows that Voight understands.

Voight shakes his head. "You're stronger than this," he says calmly, and he doesn't sound angry, or disappointed. He says it like it's a fact, like it's obvious, and instant tears well up in her eyes.

"Hank," she manages, and he hands her the water bottle. She takes a few slow sips and swallows the Tylenol, nausea bubbling in her stomach.

"Tell me what happened," he says quietly, in the steady, soothing voice she remembers from her teenage years.

She curls up into a ball, facing away from him. Hank waits her out, and finally, unable to handle the silence any longer, she starts talking. He's always been able to get her to talk. "Halstead thinks I was raped," she says hoarsely.

"You were," Voight says bluntly.

"No," she says, shaking her head, even though it sends a ripple of pain through her entire body. "No, it was just-just bad sex. I screwed up. I did something stupid."

"Are you listening to yourself?" Voight asks incredulously. " _Bad sex_?"

"Hank…"

"What would you tell any other woman who told you what went down that night?" Voight asks. "What would you have told Nadia if she'd told you the same story?"

Hearing her name physically hurts, and Erin can't suppress a gasp. "Nadia _was_ raped," she says. "Don't-don't talk about her like...don't use her as…"

"I'm not using her," he says, his voice gentler now. "But you are, Erin. You're using her as an excuse to destroy yourself. You're using what happened to Nadia as a way to avoid dealing with what happened to you." He sighs. "Erin, sit up please."

She bites her lip hard, the rebellious teenager still inside of her ready to say _no_. But slowly, painfully, she does, tilting her head back against the headboard. She grits her teeth and lifts her eyes to Voight's face.

"You need to deal with what happened," he says. "To you, and to Nadia. You need to face it, and accept it. Otherwise…" he lets the thought trail off with a shrug, but she knows what he means. He's said it before.

Otherwise she's going to wind up dead. And the question is—is that what she wants?

"It's hard," she whispers.

He laughs. "When has Erin Lindsay ever been afraid of _hard_?" he says, but she shakes her head. She doesn't want a motivational speech from him right now.

"What if too much has happened?" she says, her eyes studying his to make sure he tells her the truth. "What if I'm too damaged for him?"

"For _Halstead_?" Voight asks, and she can see he's trying not to roll his eyes. "Erin, that guy is so head over heels for you it's a wonder he can tie his shoes in the morning. And I know he's told you that. That is the last thing you should be worrying about. But that's not really the point-you're dealing with this for you, not for him."

She thinks about that and nods slowly. "I miss her," she says softly, shrugging. She doesn't know where that comes from, but it's how she feels. "I just really miss her."

The only father she's ever known pulls her into a hug, and she closes her eyes and leans against his chest. "I know, kid," he says. "I know."

-o-o-

Jay follows Antonio down his block and out towards the River Walk, his heart hammering harder and harder in his chest. His breathing grows more labored, and he's overheated and sweaty, despite the relative coolness of the spring day.

"Antonio," he manages, hunching over his knees and gasping for oxygen. He's never had a panic attack before, but he's pretty sure this is what one feels like.

"Okay," Antonio says. "Okay, okay."

Antonio guides him to a nearby bench, and he collapses onto it, head between his knees. And as the panic subsides, a rush of fury hits him, and he almost topples off the bench from the force of it. Just as quickly, the anger is followed by pain, and the words that tumbled out of her on his couch assault him. _I've been raped before_.

"Every time I think everything's okay it gets worse," he gasps.

"Tell me what happened," Antonio says, his voice calm and soothing like he's talking to Eva or Diego.

"She-she was so drunk," Jay manages. "I don't know how she got home. I don't know if she knew where she was. And she started talking and talking, and I don't even know if she knew what she was saying, but it was about...just all these horrible things that happened to her as a kid. All this horrible, horrible stuff, and she was talking about it like it was nothing. Like it's no big deal to be raped by gross child molesters because you're trying to eat and your mom's abandoned you."

Antonio puts a hand on his back, and Jay knows he's trying to be reassuring, but he stiffens and pulls away. He doesn't want to be comforted.

"She went through so fucking much," Jay spits out. "I mean—I knew that. I knew she'd been through hell. She told me she was a street kid, and she said it like it was nothing, but I didn't think about what that meant, you know? And I met Teddy, and I saw what had happened to him, but I thought—I thought Voight saved her, you know? That she'd been okay."

He swipes a hand over his face. Jay thinks of himself as a pretty tough person, as a person who doesn't cry, but there have been an awful lot of tears lately.

"She went through so much," Jay says again, and he's so angry. Maybe at the universe, for putting her through all that, or at Voight, for not saving her in time…or maybe just at himself for not being able to protect her. "And it's so fucking unfair that she has to go through more. It's not fair."

"Halstead, come on," Antonio says gently. "Life isn't fair."

"I know," Jay says, and he has the irrational—and impossible—urge to call his mom. To curl up in her arms and never get up. He takes a deep breath, forces himself to calm down. It's not worth being angry because it's over—it's all over, and the only thing he can do is make sure that nothing bad ever happens to her again.

All he wants to do is protect her. And he's failed at it. So, so miserably.

"Jay," Antonio says. "Things will get better. They will. It's just going to take some time. And there are going to be setbacks, and I know today was rough, but she's okay. And maybe in a way it will help you guys turn a corner. Sometimes you need to take a step back before you can go forward."

Jay nods, taking that in, then snorts. "Thanks, Tony Robbins."

Antonio punches him in the arm. "That's what I'm here for."

Jay laughs. It feels good, feels light, feels like maybe he can breathe again. He leans his head back against the bench and watches the clouds pass over his head. He can only hope.

-o-o-

Erin slowly drifts awake in a cocoon of warmth. Her nose is pressed to a solid wall of muscle, and she burrows into it further. She can't help but feel that this has happened before, that she's already lived through this moment.

Maybe she's dreaming, she thinks, breathing in deeply. _Jay_. He smells so real, feels so tangible, but he can't be. Because this already happened, and she knows the ending. She doesn't want to relive that part.

His fingers tangle in her hair, cradling her head, and she lets herself smile and relax. Because this is a dream, that's all it is, so she can enjoy it. She's not sure what will happen once she wakes up, and she doesn't want to find out. She just wants this.

"Erin," his voice says, low and soothing in her ear. "Baby, can you wake up for me?" he murmurs.

"No," she giggles. "This is nice."

"Erin," he says again, rocking her gently. "Come on, sweetie."

And suddenly she feels a stab of pain at her temples and a rush of nausea in her throat. God, this hangover.

She deserves it.

She swallows hard, forces her eyes open and up to meet Jay's. He's watching her worriedly.

"I thought-" she starts, then shakes her head. "Oh."

He smiles at her sadly, his fingers stroking her hair. "Do you remember what happened?"

She remembers storming out on him after their argument. Remembers shoplifting a bottle of scotch from the liquor store around the corner-both proud and ashamed that she could still manage to steal so easily. She remembers curling up inside a giant metal climbing tube on the small deserted playground two blocks away and drinking and drinking and drinking.

She remembers waking up and talking to Voight, but she actually has no idea how she ended up back here. She has no idea how a lot of things happened. "No," she whispers.

He nods. "You had a lot to drink," he says, but there's no judgment in his voice. "Do you remember that?"

"Yeah," she says, her voice barely audible. "Jay, I'm sorry."

"I don't want you to apologize," he says firmly. "I understand, Erin, I do. But we can't keep doing this."

She swallows hard and squeezes her eyes shut, her heart clenching in her chest as she waits for him to say it. And she kicks herself for finally succeeding-for pushing so hard that he couldn't take it anymore. "Okay," she chokes. "I understand."

She knows Voight's right when he tells her that she needs to get better for her, not for Jay—but if Jay leaves right now, she's not sure she could take it.

There is a long pause, and she finally opens her eyes to find him watching her intently. "I'm not leaving," he says. "I'm not leaving. I've said it before and I'll say it until I'm blue in the face. I'm. Not. Leaving." He's so intense that all she can do is nod, spellbound by the look in his eyes. "But I need you to talk to me, Erin. When you're sober. I need you to let me in. I need you to tell me things, and tell me how you're feeling so I can help you."

"It's hard," she manages weakly.

"I know," he says. "I know it's hard. But what hurts me is watching you hurt yourself. What hurts me is that you don't trust me."

She looks up at him, eyes wide. What? "Of course I trust you."

"You don't," he says, and the pain in his eyes twists her insides. "You don't trust me not to judge you. You don't trust that I can handle your past. I think that's why we broke up in the first place."

She tries to sit up, but he doesn't let her. "Jay," she whispers. "I trust you. I trust you with my life. I do-I don't know how to convince you of that."

"You can talk to me," he says. "You can let me in, rather than running out the door and swallowing a bottle of whiskey. Erin, we need to be able to talk about stuff."

"I just...I got scared," she says, thinking back on their fight. "I don't know. I thought that you didn't…that maybe it was all too much, and that…"

"I want you," he says suddenly. "I want you so badly. All the time. Every minute. This morning killed me because I _wanted_ you." She can't move, overwhelmed by his words. "I just...I can't live with myself if I hurt you," he says fiercely. "I feel like-like so many people have hurt you, and I just can't be one of them. All I wanted this morning was to kiss you and make love to you. But you hadn't really told me anything, and I don't think you're ready, and so I couldn't. Okay? I need to know that I'm not going to hurt you."

"You're not going to hurt me," she says, sniffling. She snakes an arm free and swipes at the tears sliding down her cheeks. "You couldn't hurt me."

She's crying hard now, choking on her tears, and she presses her face into the crook of his neck. How did she get so fucking lucky? Bad news has followed Erin her entire life, and yet somehow, she's here, with the most amazing man in the world, promising her that he's going to be there. No matter what.

It just doesn't make sense. But maybe someday it will.

-o-o-

When Erin's sobs have quieted, she hesitantly whispers into his neck, "What did I tell you? While I was drunk?"

Jay presses his lips to her hair, thinks about his words very carefully. "You told me about working as a prostitute," he says. "But Erin, I want you to tell me again," he adds. "Sober. I want to talk about it."

She stiffens in his arms, and he worries that she might bolt again. But finally, he feels her nod against his cheek. "Okay," she whispers haltingly. "Okay, let's talk."

-o-o-


	7. Chapter 7

Again, I am so sorry for the delay…I will probably say this every time. I promise I'm writing though! Thank you all for your lovely reviews! Hope you enjoy this chapter!

-o-o-

"So, how has it been with Jay back at work?" Dr. Carraway asks as Erin settles into the couch. She's holding her first iced coffee of the summer, the plastic cup sweating onto her palms. It feels good.

Erin takes a sip through the orange straw, considering the question. "It's a little weird," she says. "I thought that it would make things go back to normal, but...I don't know, it didn't."

"Why do you think that is?"

Erin bites her lip, fiddles with the straw. She knows exactly why, but she's hesitant to open that can of worms. "Cause...it's _not_ normal," she admits with a shrug, staring out the window. It's a beautiful day. Sunny and clear, with a gentle breeze rustling the magnolia trees outside the window. "Him going to work and me just...sitting around his apartment. I mean-there's nothing normal about that."

"So what is normal?" Erin shrugs, and Dr. Carraway pushes further. "What would normal look like? What is the picture in your head of a normal life for you and Jay?"

Erin stalls, taking a long sip of her coffee, and then another. "I mean, I don't think I've ever been normal," she deflects. "You know, I grew up on the street...and...and with Voight, you know? Not normal. And I mean, I'm a cop." She bites her lip again, shakes her head rapidly. "I was a cop. And our unit wasn't exactly normal. So—what is normal really?"

She cringes as the words come out. _That sounded really convincing, Erin_.

"Okay," Dr. Carraway says patiently, and Erin wonders for the umpteenth time how this woman puts up with her. She'd be a terrible therapist, she thinks. "So let's not use normal in the sense of average or regular. Let's look at normal for you. What does your life look like when everything is as it should be?"

Erin sets the up on the coffee table, closes her eyes, and forces herself to think about the question. What does her life look like when it's _right_? When she feels good and stable and happy? "Nadia's there," is the first thing that comes to mind, and her eyes flood with tears.

Because normal would be living in her own apartment, with Nadia in the room next to hers. Normal would be nights at Kuma's and morning workouts and bickering over who ate the last yogurt.

Normal is _gone_.

"And she always will be," the therapist says. Erin shakes her head, angrily brushing away a tear with the back of her hand. "Erin, nothing is going to bring her back. You know that. But you can find a new normal without her there. With Jay, and with Hank, and your friends, and your team." Erin takes a slow, deep breath, trying to calm herself. "We can talk about Nadia a little later. For now I want to focus on what normal looks like for you. Maybe talk about how we work towards getting back there."

Erin nods, forcing her thoughts away from Nadia. Away from the shallow grave that still haunts her dreams most nights. "Normal is Jay as my partner," she says finally. "Having each other's backs."

"And that's changed?"

"Yeah," she says. "Because he's done so much for me. He's had my back, just like he said. But he's out there now, and I don't have his back, you know? I'm not his partner anymore. We said we always would, but…" She trails off. She broke that promise.

"Are you thinking about going back to work?"

Erin looks up at her therapist, her heart rate instantly speeding up. She shakes her head rapidly. "No. No, I quit. I'm not going back."

"Hmm," Dr. Caraway says. "Okay."

Erin startles slightly. "What the hell does that mean?" She isn't sure why that comment made her so defensive, so angry, but her hands are shaking and she can't help digging her nails into her palms.

"So, what are you thinking about doing instead?" the doctor asks neutrally.

 _Instead_? Erin grasps for words, unable to find any. "I'm focusing on getting better," she manages stubbornly. "I'll figure it out."

"Okay," Dr. Carraway says. She leans forward, studying Erin's face. Erin turns away uncomfortably. "Erin, why did you become a cop?"

Erin shrugs defensively. "Because Hank was a cop," she says. "That's what I knew."

"You are smart, you are resourceful, and you're determined," Dr. Carraway says. "You could have done anything you wanted. I know you know that. You could have been a teacher, or a doctor, or a lawyer. Anything. So why be a cop, Erin? What made you choose that?"

Erin feels like there are rocks inside her mouth as she struggles to swallow. "I wanted to help people," she says, her voice so weak she can barely hear it.

"You can do better than that."

"People like me," Erin says, gritting her teeth. "Hank showed me that there was more to life. That what had happened to me was wrong. I wanted to make sure that no one else had to go through what I did."

There's absolute silence, and Erin finally raises her eyes up to her therapist. Dr. Carraway is watching her with a small smile. "That's more like it," she says gently.

"But look what happened!" Erin blurts out. "I tried to help Nadia, and-"

"And you did," Dr. Carraway says. "You did help Nadia. You did everything right."

"But-"

"Erin, as a cop I know you know this, but I'll say it anyway. Sometimes you do everything right, but that's not enough. Sometimes you can't save people. Just like in medicine, sometimes we do everything right, everything we're supposed to do, but people die anyway. That doesn't mean we were wrong, or that we screwed up, or that we killed those people. It just means that we did the best we can today, and tomorrow we fight another day."

Erin thumbs the pesky tears away from her eyes—they come so easily these days—and tries to nod. "But how do you fight another day?" she asks, and she really wants to know. "How do you get back out there and do it again, knowing that it went so badly last time?"

Dr. Carraway hands her a tissue. "Time," she says. "Courage. Love. And Erin, I know you have all of those things."

Erin nods, wiping her nose. She knows she does. She just wishes that Nadia could have had time also.

"We're almost done for today," the doctor says. "But before our next session, I want you to do some thinking about where you'd like to go from here. You don't need to make any decisions. Nothing is final. I just want you to think about it. If you're not going to be a cop anymore, what are some other avenues you'd like to explore?"

Erin stuffs an extra tissue into the pocket of her jeans for later and tries to quell the anxiety bubbling in her stomach. "Okay," she says softly, pulling on her jacket.

She'd quit the force thinking that she had no future—she wasn't planning on going anywhere once she'd handed Hank her badge. She's not exactly sure how she's supposed to envision a future without her job.

"Maybe talk to Jay," Dr. Carraway suggests with a smile. "See what he says."

-o-o-

Jay's first few days back at work are slow. Boring, even. Given everything that's happened, the powers that be seem to have decided that Intelligence could use a break, and the cases thrown their way have been relatively pedestrian. He's spent most of his time catching up on paperwork, checking in with his CIs, and leaving the office at 5:00 to get home to Erin.

The quiet has been nice. But it's also been tough. Because he spends a lot of his time staring across the bullpen at the empty desk where she should be sitting. _She's not dead_ , he reminds himself when he feels that grief in the pit of his stomach at the sight of her unused chair. She's just at home—at his home, actually. But sometimes he needs to text her, just to remind himself that she's there, that she's okay. He hopes she hasn't read too much into that.

It's nice coming home to her every night. More than nice. He loves sleeping beside her in his bed, even if that's all they've been doing—sleeping. Well—and occasionally kissing. He loves cooking her dinner and watching the hockey playoffs and even dragging her out of the apartment for the occasional walk. He loves it all—he loves _her._

But he misses his partner. And it's hard to shake that.

"Hey," Ruzek says, interrupting his thoughts.

Jay startles, randomly underlines a sentence in the report he's been pretending to read to hide the fact that he was a million miles away, and looks up. Ruzek is watching him eagerly, anxiously, practically vibrating with nerves, and Jay frowns. "What's up?" he asks cautiously, eyes narrowed. Ruzek and Atwater are the only two who don't really know what's going on with Erin, and he isn't in the mood to explain anything.

"Do you and Erin have plans tonight?" Ruzek asks, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. Jay recoils just slightly, both from Ruzek's weird energy and from the question. He's still not used to his and Erin's relationship being quite so...public.

"Why?" he asks warily, carefully setting the manila folder on his desk.

Ruzek shrugs. "I just thought maybe we could all go out. You know. Molly's. It's been a while, and I thought it might be fun. And Kim and I have some, you know, news, so…"

Jay studies his coworker's anxious face, suppressing a roll of his eyes. "Some news?" he says, amused.

"Yeah, you know, just something we want to tell everyone. Good news, I mean. You know, for a change. I think it'll be nice to-you know."

Jay raises an eyebrow at Ruzek's stuttering. "Good news, huh?" he asks wryly. He can only imagine.

"Yeah," Ruzek says with a grin, stuffing his hands in his pocket. "Definitely good news. So you guys in?"

Jay sighs. He isn't sure Erin's ready—to be in a bar, to face their coworkers, to be with him in public. To celebrate something. Truth be told, he isn't sure he's ready.

"Um," he says, trying to decide how best to phrase this. "Adam, I don't know if tonight is really a great night," he says cautiously. "We'd love to be there, I'm just not sure if Erin's…"

He trails off, unsure of how to continue, but Ruzek seems to get it. "No worries, man. Long as she's doing okay."

"She is," he says, forcing a smile. "Um-but what's your news?"

Ruzek winks at him. "How about we do brunch Saturday?" he asks. "Just the four of us. A double date!"

Jay considers this. A double date with Ruzek and Burgess. "I'll talk to her," he says, nodding.

Ruzek bangs on his desk happily, then heads for the locker room. Jay looks around the bullpen anxiously, not sure why he's so unsettled. He glances again at Erin's empty desk, then picks up his phone. _Hey_ , he types out. _Just wanted to say I love you_.

He hits _Send_ before he can talk himself out of it.

What he really wants is for everything to just be normal already.

-o-o-

"Shit," Erin mutters, as she hears the door open. "Shit, shit, shit." She thought he'd be home later, and she is not ready—he's ruining her surprise.

Well—actually, she's pretty much ruining her own surprise.

"Erin?" Jay calls, stepping into the doorway of the kitchen. "You're—cooking?"

"I was trying to," she sighs. "I'm sorry, I'm screwing it up. I tried following this recipe, and it just, it sounded so easy, but I'm not doing this right, and I thought you'd be home later, so I timed it all wrong, and…"

"Hey," he cuts her off with a laugh, wrapping his arms around her from behind and kissing her neck. "Shh. It's fine." He surveys her work, a bit of a smirk in his voice. "You—cook?"

Erin laughs, the banter feeling good. She smacks him with a towel. "Oh, shut it, you. I occasionally prepare food for myself, yes."

"What are you making?" he says, observing the somewhat burnt mess of vegetables in the frying pan.

"Stir fry!" she says. "I don't know! The recipe sounded good! I thought we could make our own Chinese food, instead of ordering, but it said you needed a wok or something, and you didn't have one, and l think I burned everything."

Unexpectedly, tears spring to her eyes, and she's frustrated with her own stupidity. _Can't even cook for him_ , she thinks bitterly.

"Erin," he says, laughing gently. "Come on."

"I'm sorry," she chokes. "I just—you've done so much for me, and I just wanted to cook you dinner." She feels like a yo-yo, her emotions rocketing back and forth.

He kisses her temple, reaches up and brushes away a stray tear. "Where'd you get the groceries?" he murmurs, reaching around her to turn off the stove.

She's confused by the question. "Whole Foods?" she says, glancing over her shoulder at him, eyebrows knit.

She can feel his smile against her cheek. "You went out grocery shopping?" he says, unable to hide the happiness in his voice.

"Yeah," she says, frowning. Why is that weird?

Then—oh. She hasn't left the apartment, except for therapy sessions and the few brief walks Jay's dragged her on. She's shot down every attempt he's made to go out, for any reason.

She hadn't even thought about that when she'd walked the four blocks to the grocery store.

"Yeah," she says again, stronger this time. Her tears have dried. "I wanted to cook you dinner."

He spins her around, tangling his hands in her hair and pressing her cheek to his chest. "I love you," he says, and he sounds so joyful that she can't help but smile.

She wraps her arms around his back. "I love you too."

-o-o-

They leave the charred vegetables in the pan in the sink and order Chinese food. Jay can't help smiling at the smell of burnt vegetables and the sight of the empty Whole Foods paper bag in the corner of the kitchen. It's such a little thing, but it means more than he could have ever imagined.

They sit side by side on his couch, stealing dumplings and scallion pancakes from each other's plastic containers and watching the Hawks kick ass. He keeps stealing glances at her. She looks—normal. Happy. Healthy.

He tries not to get his hopes up, but it's hard.

During the second intermission, Erin mutes the TV and looks up at him hesitantly. "Um," she starts, sticking her chopsticks in her half-empty container and nervously crossing her legs. She bites her lip, clearly unsure of where to begin, and he takes a shaky breath.

He just wants to hold onto this moment. He doesn't want her to say anything that's going to ruin it.

"Do you think I could be something other than a cop?" she blurts out finally.

He flinches, taken aback by the question. And on the one hand, he's overwhelmed with relief, because as far as questions go, that's a pretty positive one. It means she's thinking about the future, it means she's trying to get her life back on track. And maybe it means she trusts him, at least enough to talk about this.

But on the other hand, he desperately misses having her by his side all day. And if she's thinking about being something other than a cop, then it means she's thinking about being something other than his partner.

"Of course you could," he says, and he genuinely means it. "Erin, you could be anything you wanted."

"No, I mean seriously," she says. "If I didn't come back-what would I do?"

He adjusts himself on the couch, turning to face her more fully. She's concentrating heavily on her uneaten chicken and broccoli, and he takes the container from her hands and sets it on the coffee table. "Erin, you could do anything," he says. "I mean absolutely anything. You could go back to school if you wanted. Law school even," he prods teasingly, and she snorts. "I'm serious though. I think you'd be a great lawyer. You're certainly stubborn enough."

She punches him in the arm, and he feigns injury. "Jay, I'm serious here!"

"I know, I know," he says, sobering. "But I am too. You could go back to school and be a lawyer, or a social worker. Or whatever you wanted. Erin, a few months ago you were being aggressively recruited by the Feds. They'd probably be thrilled to have you back if that's what you wanted. But you could also just go back to school and figure it out, you know? I mean, Erin, you could start a freaking Etsy store and sell potholders if you wanted. You'd be good at anything." He means it. He thinks Erin could be the President of the United States if that's what she wanted.

She doesn't laugh at his stupid joke. "School, huh?" she says. "Hard to imagine that."

"Might be fun," he says with a shrug, trying to read her face. She isn't giving much away. "You might find a lot of things you're interested in. Just—take some classes, maybe see what you like."

"I wasn't that good at school," she says warily. "I mean, high school was…"

"You were a different person in high school," he says. "In a different situation. You were just surviving. This is different, you know? And you'd do great. At anything you wanted to do."

She shakes her head. "And how would I pay for that?" she worries. "I mean, there'd be so much to…"

He studies her as she trails off. She's actually really thinking about this, he realizes. He isn't sure how he feels about that, but it doesn't really matter. This isn't about him. "You'd figure it out," he says. "Erin, if going back to school is what you wanted, I have no doubt that Hank Voight would be able to make that happen."

Finally, she smiles. "Yeah, I guess," she says. "It's just...scary, you know? I thought—I just had this vision of my life, and now it's all just open."

"I know," he says, pulling her into his arms and kissing her head. "But that's not a bad thing. It means there are all kinds of possibilities." He doesn't feel as positive as he sounds. "You could come back, too," he points out hesitantly. "There's nothing final, you know? Just cause you quit...it doesn't mean anything."

She doesn't respond, and he wonders if for her, maybe things are final. He wishes he understood that-he gets why she quit, why at that moment it was all too much and all she could do was walk away. But he doesn't really understand why she's not thinking about coming back. Maybe not yet—but someday.

He hugs her tighter, reminding himself that she's here. That's all he can ask for.

-o-o-

"I forgot," Jay says, as they're climbing into bed a few hours later. "Uh—Ruzek was wondering if we'd have brunch with him and Kim. Saturday."

Erin stares at him dumbly. _Brunch_? With Ruzek and Burgess? They're not exactly double-dating kind of friends.

"He says he has something to tell us," Jay adds with a shrug. "He wanted us all to go out to Molly's tonight, but...I wasn't in the mood."

Erin frowns, sure there's more to it than that. "What, did he propose to Burgess?" Jay laughs, and Erin's eyes widen. _He did?_ "Shit, what is wrong with him?"

"He's an idiot," Jay says, then shakes his head. "I don't know. Life is short, you know?" he adds with a chuckle, and the smile falls from Erin's face.

She knows.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, and she shakes her head. She can't do this. She can't react like this every time an innocent comment makes it feel like sandpaper is scraping against her heart.

"It's okay," she whispers, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. She opens them again to find his concerned face just inches from hers, and she forces a smile, leans forward, and kisses his lips gently. "It's really okay."

He rests his forehead against hers, and she breathes him in, letting his presence calm her. "And yeah," she says, before she can question the impulse. "Brunch. Let's do it."

Jay pulls back, and she can see he's surprised. She doesn't blame him—every time he's brought up seeing their coworkers, or even going out to dinner, she's shut him down pretty quickly. And she still isn't sure how to face everyone, how to acknowledge what happened to Nadia and how she dealt with it and how she hurt them. But—no time like the present. And brunch with Ruzek and Burgess seems like a relatively simple place to start.

"You sure?" Jay says, eying her warily.

She nods, pressing her palm to his cheek. "Yeah," she says, and her smile is real this time. "Yeah, let's do it."

-o-o-


	8. Chapter 8

I'm back! Thanks for your patience and your lovely reviews. I think we may be getting near some sort of resolution to this story! Hope you enjoy.

-o-o-

Jay doesn't even try to hide the fact that he's staring at Erin. His girlfriend—he likes the sound of that—is sitting beside him at the round wooden table, eyes darting back and forth across the restaurant's small garden, legs bouncing rapidly up and down.

She's _nervous_. And he can't exactly figure out why. Things have been good this last week. Erin's been going out, talking, laughing more. Sometimes, he forgets that anything has changed since the first time they dated.

"Hey," he says, gently covering her fidgety knee with his hand. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she dismisses, smoothing her palms over her blue button-down for the fifth time. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He decides not to comment. He's not used to seeing her like this, not in public anyway, and it's making him a little anxious as well.

"Hey, guys!" Ruzek's voice booms across the courtyard, and Erin jumps, but recovers quickly, pasting a smile on her face. Jay gets to his feet warily, watching Erin as he does.

"Hey, man," he says, reaching across the table to shake Ruzek's hand.

"Lindsay!" Adam says. "So good to see you!" He wraps his arms around her in a bear hug, and Jay watches her flinch. _Shit_.

Burgess is more tentative. "Hey, Halstead," she says with a shy smile. "Erin, you look great. We've missed you."

Erin manages a smile and a small, impersonal hug. "You too," she says, and he can see her take a deep breath and slowly count to five. Ruzek and Burgess both look at him, questions in their eyes, but he shakes his head and gestures at the table.

"Let's sit," he says, trying to sound jovial. "This place looks great. Good find, Burgess."

Erin lowers herself into her chair, but he can see her legs are shaking. He clenches his hands into fists. Maybe this wasn't a good idea.

-o-o-

She's not sure why she's feeling so panicked. It's just Ruzek and Burgess. She's not even particularly close to either of them—of all the people in her life, these two should be the easiest. But she feels like there are rocks in her throat, and her stomach is rolling, and she can't seem to stop shaking.

She clutches the plastic menu in her hands, trying to focus on the tiny words on the blue paper. Jay is making small talk about the Bears or the Bulls, or something, sending concerned glances her way. She can't even look at him. "Hey," Burgess says softly, her voice making Erin jump. "You okay? You want to go to the ladies room?"

Erin stares at her blankly, forcing herself to breathe. _Breathe_. "I'm okay," she says finally, her voice coming out stronger than she feels. She takes another deep breath. She can do this. "I'm okay, I'm sorry."

Burgess smiles. "Nothing to be sorry for."

Erin shakes her head. "No, there is," she says. "I put you all through a lot, and I'm sorry. You all lost Nadia too, and then you had to deal with me, and you shouldn't have. I just—I never meant to hurt the team, and I'm sorry."

She isn't sure why, but she feels this need to make amends. To somehow get over this awkward tension, this painful _thing_ she's put between herself and her friends. Her family. She's pretty sure no one's treating her differently—but she's uncomfortable just the same.

"Erin, it's okay," Burgess says. Jay reaches over and takes her hand, and she squeezes it, holding on for dear life. "We get it. We all do. And we understand."

Erin shakes her head, unable to accept absolution.

"We all miss her, you know?" Ruzek says, and she forces herself to look at him. She's not used to compassion from Ruzek. "I think we've all dealt with it in our own ways. Not necessarily good ways," he adds, with a knowing look on his face, and she thinks about the nights at Molly's she ducked out of so she could get drunk by herself.

Erin nods. She wishes she could have been there for them, the way they've tried to be there for her. "I'm just—I'm sorry that I made you worry," she says finally, feeling her breathing return to normal. It's going to be okay. "It's not going to happen again."

"We're a family, right?" Burgess says. "That's what we're for."

It's cheesy and it's silly, and Erin has never been particularly close to Burgess—but the sentiment makes her smile. And maybe she and Burgess could become friends, could learn to be there for each other. "Yeah," she says quietly. "Yeah."

"On that note," Ruzek says, drumming on the table. "We've got some news!"

Erin laughs at the eagerness in his voice, and relief at the change in subject—and mood—floods through her.

Jay slides his hand under the table and squeezes her knee. "All right, Ruzek, let's hear it," he says.

Burgess holds up her left hand, displaying a small diamond ring. "We're engaged!" she says giddily, and even though both Erin and Jay knew this was coming, the table dissolves into a happy melee of congratulations and hugging.

And as Erin wraps her arms around Burgess and squeals girlishly over her ring, she catches Jay's eye. He's watching her, a small smile on his face, and she knows he's thinking the same thing as her.

Someday, this will be them.

-o-o-

Jay stands outside the door to his apartment, trying desperately to calm himself down. He needs to see her, urgently, but he can't go in there like he is right now and freak her out.

It has been a scary, shitty day. A rough one, as Erin would have put it in her understated way. He can't decide if he wanted her there or if he's glad she wasn't.

He takes a slow, deep breath and forces his face and shoulders to relax, then unlocks the door. "Hi, Erin," he calls, his voice stilted and thick. _Shit_. He's not going to be able to keep it together.

She steps into the living room, wearing a tight black lace dress, sky-high red heels, and dangling gold earrings with crystals that catch the light. Her hair is curled and framing her face perfectly, and she's wearing _make-up_. She looks so fucking gorgeous that his stomach aches.

She dressed up for him.

He isn't sure what comes over him, but suddenly his whole body is crumpling to the ground and tears are streaming down his face. It happens instantly, like a switch is flipped. "Oh, my God," Erin gasps, her heels clicking against the wood floor as she rushes to him. "Oh, God, Jay, what happened? Is—did something...is everything okay?"

The look on her face is panicked and her voice is breaking, and he realizes that he's scaring her. That she thinks something happened to Voight, or to someone else on the team. "No!" he says, fighting for control. This is exactly what he did not want to do. "No, everything's fine. Everyone's fine. I'm sorry, nothing happened. Erin, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," she says, kneeling beside him, although she still looks shaken. "You're sure—everyone's okay?"

"Everyone's okay, I promise," he says, pulling her into him and hugging her tightly. "I promise nothing happened."

She relaxes against him and wraps her arms around his waist. They hold each other in silence, the only sound his ragged breathing. Finally, she kisses his neck and nuzzles her nose against his jaw and whispers, "What happened, Jay?"

Instantly, he feels stupid, because, truth be told, _nothing_ happened. His job happened. It was a rough case—a kid, yeah—but there wasn't anything particularly unusual or traumatic or stressful. Lots of evidence. Easy arrest. Open and shut.

But spending the day interviewing those kids at a south side high school that had seen better days had made him think about her. What her life must have been like. And it just made him sad.

Ge isn't sure he should tell her that. He doesn't want her to think he pities her, and he doesn't want her to feel embarrassed or ashamed. She's been so open with him lately, and he's terrified of her shutting down again, shutting him out. So he lies, although he can't come up with a good enough cover story. "It was just a tough case," he says, pressing her face to his chest so she can't see the truth in his eyes. "A kid. You know."

She pulls away and looks at him, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Jay," she says with a sigh, pressing her palm to his cheek. "What's going on?"

He can't look at her, can't bear to see the understanding in her eyes, and he's so ashamed of that. "This girl," he says haltingly, staring just past her ear at the living room sofa. "Sixteen. South side. She was shot...standing on her front porch with her boyfriend by a couple of bangers driving by. They were aiming for the boyfriend, but you know these kids, they can't shoot, and she got hit. Bled out in the ambo."

Erin looks sad, but he can tell she doesn't really understand why he's so upset. This is a part of their job—dealing with people whose lives were ended way too early, in brutal, horrible ways. This isn't anything he hasn't experienced before.

She waits him out, and finally, he starts talking again. "So we spent the day at the high school, talking to people. You know the counselors and the principal, and some of her friends. Shani's friends—her name was Shani. And these kids, it's like—there are just gunshots everywhere. All the time. And half of them are dealing drugs, or getting in knife fights, or sleeping on the streets, and their parents are addicts or aren't around—or they are around but there's nothing they can _do_ —and they're all just trying to survive, and it was so _sad_. And I just—I couldn't help…"

"Thinking about me?" Erin finishes quietly.

Jay can't look at her. He takes her hand in his, holding it tightly. "Yeah," he whispers, leaning his head back against the door. "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologize," she says, her voice low and soothing. "I know."

Her gentle words give him the strength to continue. "I just can't help thinking about what it must have been like for you," he says, his voice cracking. "I mean, I know you told me some stuff. Big stuff, I know. And I—I know you have. But today, talking to those people at that school, I just started thinking about the little stuff. Sleeping on the street, and drug dealers on the corner. I don't know."

Erin sighs and kisses his cheek. "Jay," she says, caressing his collarbone with her thumb. "You can't do that." She's silent for a long time, and he finally turns to look at her. She's far away, and he curses himself for opening this can of worms. "Is it—would you feel better...knowing? Knowing more, I mean? I don't—I don't know what you want, I guess."

"No!" he says, because he doesn't want to hear. Doesn't want to know. "Maybe. I don't know."

He'd spent all day envisioning the painful details of her life—stealing food, sleeping on the streets, running from the cops. Everything those kids said, he had grafted onto Erin's face, until he could see her as a six-year-old or a ten-year-old or a fourteen-year-old, walking in the middle of the street to avoid gunfire or running a gauntlet of drug dealers trying to make it home.

And he knows she wasn't safe at home either.

"It was a long time ago," Erin says. "And some of it feels very far away."

"Some of it?" Jay asks hesitantly.

Erin shrugs. "Some of it doesn't. And yeah, sometimes I have dreams that I'm sleeping on the street, and those are upsetting and sometimes I see things that...remind me. But Jay, I don't walk around feeling like that little girl trying to survive. And this whole—everything that's happened—it threw me, yeah, but…" She meets his eyes, and he's struck by the fire in them. He can picture what Voight saw in her. "It was a different life, you know?"

"What was it like?" he asks. "Being a street kid?"

He's a cop. He's dealt with homeless kids and gang members and thirteen-year-olds carrying guns bigger than they are. But he still can't form an accurate picture of what Erin's life was like.

"It was just the way it was," Erin says, and though the answer sounds evasive, he can tell she's doing the best she can. "I'm not saying that's right, but it's just how I grew up. Sometimes we had an apartment. Sometimes, my mom worked, and sometimes she was clean for a couple months, and everything would be fine. And then she'd start using again, and she'd get fired, and that would be it. She'd disappear for a couple months…" Erin shrugs. "And sometimes I just felt safer staying away from home. Sometimes with friends, and...sometimes I slept on the street."

Jay swallows, hard. He isn't sure which part of this bothers him the most. His family life had by no means been idyllic, but he'd grown up playing pee wee hockey and complaining that his birthday cake was decorated like the wrong Ninja Turtle. He had never, not once in his entire existence, been hungry. Until he'd joined the army, most of his fears had revolved around monsters under the bed or his older brother's friends.

"You've gotta understand, it didn't feel weird," Erin explains, when he doesn't say anything. "I had plenty of friends that were doing the same thing, and I was used to it. It didn't feel wrong—I mean, anything really. Shoplifting, or sleeping on the street, or using drugs, or—" She hesitates, and he can see her gathering her courage. "Or prostitution. It felt normal, until Voight took me in."

"I think that's what bothers me the most," Jay says. "I mean, what happened to you—" Erin flinches involuntarily, and he lets the thought go. "I think the thing that upsets me the most is just thinking about you being so little and fending for yourself. No one taking care of you."

"Jay," Erin says sadly, offering him a very small smile. "You can't do this. You can't torture yourself like this. I'm here, okay? I went through a lot, and I know the last few weeks I've been…" She shakes her head, takes a deep breath. "I'm here, okay? I'm here."

He rocks her gently in his arms—he thinks he needs it more than she does. "I know. Thank you. I'm just so glad you're here."

She kisses his cheek. "Me too," she whispers.

-o-o-

Before Dr. Carraway can ask any questions, Erin blurts out the idea that's been weighing on her mind since her conversation with Jay a few nights ago. "I think while I'm figuring everything out I'd like to do some volunteering," she says in a rush. "I'm thinking maybe with some sort of organization that helps street kids, and I don't know if there's anything like that or what I could do with them, but I think it would be good for me."

"I think that would be great, Erin," Dr. Carraway says, and she looks genuinely happy. Like, maybe, Erin's finally making some progress. "What made you come up with that?"

"Jay," she says. "I mean—he didn't come up with it. I haven't told him this. We talked about what I could do, like you said. But I guess—he keeps saying I could do anything. And I understand he means well, and he's trying to show me he believes in me, and whatever. But...well, he worked on a case that I think reminded him of me. And he was all upset—he was talking about me growing up, you know, not having anyone to take care of me…"

Erin trails off, remembering the look on Jay's face. He'd been so devastated, but it had almost made her feel good—no one's ever said things like that to her before. Voight had made her understand that she didn't deserve that life, but Jay had been the first person to be upset by it.

"That's understandable," Dr. Carraway says, when she doesn't continue. "It's hard to think about bad things happening to people we love, even if they're in the past."

"I know," Erin says, refocusing. "But it got me thinking. There's nothing he can do for me, you know? Not that me, anyway. He can't save me, and he can't prevent what's already happened to me. But me...I can help other people. Kids like I was. And I'm not ready to—I don't think I can get too involved. Not yet. Because—Nadia—"

"Erin, you know that Nadia—"

Erin holds up her hand and rapidly shakes her head. "I can't yet, okay? Not now. Please, can we just…" Dr. Carraway nods, and Erin takes a deep breath, proud that she was able to say that. "I think that maybe I could listen. I think that's what I didn't have when I was a kid. Cause I could take care of myself, and I could figure out how to survive, but—the only people to talk to were people you couldn't talk to. Teachers, or police—because I did a lot of things that were illegal, and you couldn't really talk to authority figures because they'd put you in foster care. Hank was the first adult that I could talk to, and that meant a lot."

Erin clears her throat, sits up a little straighter. "So, what I'd like to do—and what I'd like your help with...I'd like to be a person that street kids could come talk to. Not as a cop, or as a social worker, or a therapist, or anything. Just—someone that kids like me could talk to, for whatever they need. Just a friend. Someone who's been there."

"I think that sounds wonderful, Erin," Dr. Carraway says. "I think you'll be great at that. And I think I can help you find something."

Erin can't help smiling. She thinks for a fleeting second that maybe Nadia would be proud.

-o-o-

Voight is standing by the board, expounding on the next steps for getting a particular baddie off the streets of his city when he stops mid-sentence, his eyes wide and fixated on the entrance to the bullpen. Jay frowns at the sudden and uncharacteristic silence and turns towards the stairs to find Erin standing there, hands nervously twisting together.

"Hi," she says hoarsely, and he can see her try to smile. "I, um—thought I'd come by and say hello."

There's a long, uncomfortable moment of silence in the bullpen before Antonio climbs down from the desk he's sitting on and strides forward to hug her. Jay watches Erin tense, then relax, tears filling her eyes as she hugs him back and smiles.

"We missed you," Antonio says, before Ruzek and Atwater step up to embrace her as well, and the meeting dissolves into something of a reunion.

"Is this okay?" he hears Erin ask Voight quietly. "I didn't want to…"

"Of course," his boss says, putting an arm around her. "You're always welcome here."

Jay watches from his perch at the corner of his desk as she chats animatedly with Olinsky. He catches her eye and gives her a smile. He just—wants her to know he's proud of her. She winks at him, then turns back to her conversation.

And suddenly he knows that everything really will be okay.

-o-o-

"I thought maybe we could go for lunch?" Erin asks hesitantly. "I don't know if you're—busy, or...I don't know."

Jay's whole face lights up. He's been smiling ever since she showed up at the district, but the look in his eyes now makes her feel warm inside. Safe.

She isn't sure what possessed her to come here after her therapist appointment. For a long time, she'd thought she would never come back here. She hadn't been sure she could face the team, or Nadia's desk. But somehow, her car had ended up here, almost without her knowing, and before she could talk herself out of it, she was making her way into the district. Platt hadn't been at the front desk, but Sergeant Velasco had buzzed her up without a word, and she'd forced herself to climb the stairs and stand at the top until Hank had spotted her.

"I'd love to do lunch," Jay says, squeezing her hand. "Just let me tell Voight."

They walk side by side to Bread & Honey, order sandwiches, and find tables on the sidewalk in the sunshine. "How was your appointment?" Jay asks, as Erin takes a sip of her lemonade and unwraps her sandwich.

"It was good," she says, smiling. And it was. This is the first time she's left her therapist's office feeling positive. Like maybe everything would one day be good again. "I wanted to ask you something."

Jay looks a little anxious, and she doesn't blame him—she's been such a basket case these last few weeks, and she knows he's scared of anything upending the stability they've finally found. "Okay," he says hesitantly. He's holding his sandwich in his hands, as if he's afraid to move it to his mouth.

"It's okay," she says, smiling. "I um...I'm going to do some volunteer work. I talked to Dr. Carraway, and she talked to some of her friends. I'm going to work at a shelter for street kids a couple days a week."

Jay's whole face relaxes. "That sounds great, Erin," he says, a grin lighting up his eyes. "I think that will be perfect."

"Yeah," she says, nodding. "But, before I start there—I know you just went back to work, and everything, but I was wondering...do you think Voight would maybe let you take a little vacation time?"

He raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

She takes a deep breath. She's not sure why this makes her nervous. "I thought maybe we could go on vacation?" she says in a rush. "Just us, you know? Somewhere—not in Chicago. I thought it might be good to get away." Actually, her therapist thought that. But she doesn't mind claiming credit for the idea.

Jay nods, his eyes wide and round. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I would love that."

"I mean, I know the timing's not great," she babbles. "And I'm not working, and money and everything, but I think maybe it would be good for us, and before I sort of...start something new, I thought…"

"Erin," Jay laughs. "Yes. Yes. Let's do it. I'll talk to Voight. I'm sure he'll be fine with it." He reaches for her hand and caresses her knuckles with his thumb. "Where did you want to go?"

She studies his beautiful, open, loving face and can't help but smile. "Anguilla," she says. "In the Caribbean. I thought we could go there."

He leans over to kiss her. "There's nothing I'd like more," he says, and the tears that fill Erin's eyes are happy ones this time.

-o-o-

"So, why Anguilla?" Jay asks curiously, as Erin hunches over his laptop later that evening. Voight had approved his vacation request with barely a word, and Erin has jumped head on into planning. She's already found cheap flights, sorted through 17 different hotel possibilities on TripAdvisor, and has moved onto checking out kayaking trips and sailing excursions.

If it were up to him, they'd drive up to the cabin in Wisconsin and spend a week chilling on the lake. No flights, no hotel, no stress. But—Erin seems to want this so badly.

"Um," Erin says, and he realizes that his question has an answer beyond that the island looks pretty, or that a friend of hers had recommended it. She shuts the laptop, closes her eyes, and takes a few slow, deep breaths. He's learned what this reaction means, and he carefully sits down on the couch beside her—close, but not too close.

"I had never really been to the beach," Erin says, her eyes far away. "Growing up. I mean, Lake MIchigan, but...it's not much of a beach, you know. I used to always see this billboard, over the highway near my neighborhood. It was really old, and kind of ratty—like it had been there for years, but no one bothered to take it down. Anyway, the billboard was for Anguilla—and of course, I'd never heard of it. Couldn't even pronounce the word. And I didn't know anything about the Caribbean, or the sea really. But it was this beautiful picture of a white sand beach with a couple of palm trees and this gorgeous turquoise water. And it just looked so _peaceful_ to me. I just loved it, I guess."

Her brows knit and she stops talking, and he hesitates. He isn't sure if there's more to the story, isn't sure if he should say something or let her finish. Just when he opens his mouth, she continues.

"When I would—when I was working the street, and things were bad," she says haltingly. "When men were rough or scary, or even when my mom was…I would close my eyes and I would think about Anguilla. I would pretend I was on that beach in the picture, and that everything was okay."

Jay's stomach tightens as it always does when she shares these painful pieces of herself. He can't help picturing that scared little girl, and God it hurts.

She turns to him, and her eyes are dry. "I've always wanted to go there," she says with a shrug. "And I thought—maybe you and I could make some new Anguilla memories? Good ones."

Jay pulls her against his chest and clutches her tightly. "I love you, you know that?" he says roughly. "Always."

She nuzzles her nose against him. "Always," she whispers.

-o-o-

"So you've got everything planned?" Voight asks, dumping another scoop of green beans onto Erin's plate.

"Hank, I'm so full," Erin protests, taking a sip of her iced tea. Hank isn't drinking either, but she's decided not to comment on that.

"You're wasting away," he says gruffly, taking some more vegetables for himself as well. "You need to put some weight back on."

Erin bristles a little, but it feels good to have someone care about her. Parent her. She forks a green bean and shoves it in her mouth. "Yes," she says, once she's finished chewing. "We've got everything booked, packed, ready. All set."

Hank softens. "Good," he says. "You deserve it."

She nods, those pesky tears springing to her eyes again. She's learning to live with them, to accept her feelings rather than trying to fight them. "I'm sorry," she says. "For everything I put you through. I'm so sorry, Hank."

He smiles. "I know," he says. "I'd do anything for you, kid. You know that, right?"

She sniffs hard. "You're really okay with me and Jay?" she says. She knows she shouldn't push her luck on this, knows that Hank has given his blessing, but she can't help wanting more than that. She wants his _approval_.

"Yeah," Hank says, and she knows he is. "He's good for you," he adds fondly. "And if one day he isn't, I'm on it," he adds, mock threatening.

Erin laughs. "No, he's good for me," she says. "He knows things...most things, I guess. And he's still here."

"You told him everything?" Hank asks.

Erin shakes her head. "I'm getting there," she says. "It's hard—harder than I thought it would be to tell him stuff. I'm afraid of him judging or…I don't know. And I'm afraid of hurting him, I guess."

"Halstead can take it," Hank scoffs. And Erin nods, although she isn't sure he can.

And mostly, she wishes he didn't have to. She wishes she could give him normalcy, give him a life without baggage and nightmares.

But if he's accepted it, then she can too.

"What made you think I could do it?" Erin asks suddenly. "When you met me. What did you see that made you think I could be someone better?"

Hank looks at her fondly, then gets up and heads for the freezer and pulls out a container of ice cream. "I got apple pie," he says. "We can let the ice cream soften while I heat up the pie."

Erin frowns. That wasn't really an answer.

Hank laughs and sits back down at the table. "That day I met you," he says, a little grin on his face. "When I tried to ask you about that shooting and you mouthed off at me? I thought you were the toughest kid I'd ever met. You were so smart, and so brave, and I remember thinking that this kid was gonna change the world one day. I think I said that to Olinsky when we got back in the car."

"Hank," Erin whispers, emotion flooding her.

"I never doubted you, Erin," Hank says, his voice rough and intense. "Never. Not then, and not now. I still think you're going to change the world."

"Even if I'm not a cop anymore?" Erin asks, her voice small.

Hank nods very seriously, holding eye contact with her. "Yeah," he says. "I'd love to have you back. You know that. But if you decide not to—well, I'm behind you no matter what. You know that right?"

Erin leans into his embrace, holding him against her tightly. Yeah, she thinks. She does.

-o-o-


	9. Chapter 9

Guys. I am so sorry. I meant to get this up _ages_ ago, but it's been busy and I got stuck on some of the scenes and then all of a sudden like two months passed. I am so sorry. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

I think this is the end! There may be an epilogue coming, but I'm not quite sure yet. Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing! I've had a lot of fun writing this!

-o-o-

Jay stands in the doorway to the balcony of their rented beachfront apartment, watching Erin. The sun is setting over the Caribbean, and the orange-red glow lights up her hair and her face. She's leaning against the banister, staring out over the sparkling water, seemingly unaware of his gaze. He props himself against the sliding glass door, unable to take his eyes off her.

She's so beautiful sometimes he can hardly breathe.

It's been a long day. They'd been up before 5:00 to catch a cab to O'Hare, followed by two flights and a ferry. Jay had sat on the plane beside her, squeezed into a middle seat while she curled up against the window, unable to avoid thinking of the last flight they'd taken together. The one that had brought them home from New York after Yates' trial. She'd been totally shut down then, her entire body a rigid mask of agony. He'd been afraid to touch her, afraid to talk to her, certain that anything he said or did would cause her to shatter.

It feels like a few minutes and a few lifetimes ago.

"Stop staring at my ass, Halstead," Erin growls, without turning away from the glowing sunset.

He laughs and comes to stand beside her, slipping his hand into hers and kissing her temple. "You're so gorgeous," he whispers, nuzzling his nose into her hair.

She shakes her head. " _This_ is gorgeous," she says, nodding at the flaming sky. It is, but he doesn't turn away from her. She takes a deep breath, and for a second, her eyes darken and grief flits across her face. "Nadia loved sunsets," she whispers, her voice thick and barely audible over the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. "She always said they made her feel hopeful."

"She'd be really proud of you, Erin," Jay says, reaching up to stroke his finger against her cheek.

"I know," Erin says, leaning into his touch. "I know that. I just—I miss her, you know? And I just...I wonder if it's ever going to get easier."

Jay sighs, considers that. He thinks that maybe it already is—that finally, Erin can mention her name without intolerable pain tightening her entire body. He thinks of the first days after Nadia's death, of the way agony seemed to lance through her when he'd suggested going to Kuma's for Nadia's favorite meal. "It will," he says. "You'll always miss her. But one day you'll think about her and you'll smile and it won't hurt so much, you know?"

Erin turns to him, her eyes searching his. "Does it hurt to think about your mom?" she asks.

Jay shrugs. "Sometimes," he says. "And I miss her. All the time. And sometimes I feel like I need her, for whatever reason, and she isn't there, and that hurts. But—mostly, I have happy memories. And mostly when I think about her...it's okay."

Erin nods slowly. "She'd be proud of you, too," she says gently, smiling shyly. "You're such a good man. I'm so lucky to have you."

Her words warm him inside, and he wishes his mother could have met Erin. He thinks it would have been good for both of them.

"We're lucky to have each other," he reminds her, as the last edge of the sun dips below the horizon.

-o-o-

It's freezing cold out, and Erin is only wearing a hoody. She shivers on the street corner, feeling desperately alone and scared. She'd fled the apartment a few hours earlier, after Charlie had threatened her with a knife, and she's been shaking ever since. She wishes she'd taken a coat, or some money, or some food, but she'd been frantic and terrified, and had barely managed to get her shoes on.

But Detective Voight said he'd be here. He promised he'd come get her.

She scans up and down the deserted street from her perch inside the entryway of a shuttered bodega, rubbing her hands up and down her arms and bouncing anxiously from foot to foot. It had been ages since she'd called, and he really should be here by now. There's no traffic in the middle of the night, and he'd said it was no trouble.

He said he'd be here by now.

Every noise, every breeze, every flashing light makes her jump. She doesn't want anyone to see her here, waiting for a cop to pick her up. She's terrified that Charlie will find her before she can get out.

Because this time—this is it. This time she's getting out.

A car pulls up and slows to a stop, the lights reflecting off the broken glass of a bus shelter, and she tenses, flattening herself against the wall. It has to be Voight, she tells herself, fighting to calm her racing heart. It has to be.

"Detective Lindsay," a familiar voice says, and she looks around, petrified. _Detective_?

But somehow that feels correct. She doesn't know why.

"Detective Voight?" she whimpers, although the voice isn't his.

"I have someone here for you," the man croons. She knows who it is. It's Derek Yates—she knows that as well as she knows her own name, but she doesn't know why she knows him, doesn't know why the voice is familiar and terrifying and gut-churning. "She's been crying out for you all night."

"No," she gasps. "Please, no."

"Erin!" she hears a shriek, the sound piercing and horrible. It makes her stomach hurt. "Erin!"

"Nadia!" she cries, knowing instinctively who it is, although she doesn't know why she knows that. "Nadia! I'm coming! Voight's coming for me!"

Yates appears out of a shadow and laughs, so casually that she backs up against the wall again. His face is calm and cheerful and menacing all at once, and Erin feels for the gun that she thinks should be on her hip—it isn't there. "Voight isn't coming," he says sympathetically. "He isn't coming for either of you."

Erin looks around, feeling desperate and panicked and _alone_. Voight said he was coming. He _promised_. He said he'd save her.

And suddenly a memory comes to her, as clear as day and as powerful as a punch to the gut. She curls into the fetal position, struggling against the weight of the words. _I will get you to the other side_. She doesn't know where it comes from, doesn't know when she said that or why, but she knows it was a promise she made to Nadia.

She promised to save her.

"No!" she begs. She tries to run to Yates, tries to hit him or throw something at him or scream for help, but it's like she's stuck to the brick wall behind her. "Nadia!" she shrieks, reaching for her friend. "Nadia, I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

"Erin!" Nadia cries out. "Erin! Erin!"

Someone is shaking her, hard, and she flails her arms, trying to fight them off. She can fix this. She has to _fix this_. "Erin! Erin!"

It isn't Nadia's voice, she realizes. Or Yates'. Or Voight's. "Erin, come on, open your eyes. Erin, you're safe. It's okay. Erin. Erin!"

She searches for the voice, fighting her way up to it through the fog of fear. Suddenly her eyes are open and she's in an unfamiliar bedroom and Jay is hovering over her, panic all over his face.

"Hey," he says gently, thumbing the tears away from her cheeks. "You with me?"

She isn't sure, but she nods, looking around the room to orient herself. She takes deep, rapid breaths, fighting off the remnants of the terrifying, nonsensical dream.

She's on _vacation_. With Jay. In the fucking _Caribbean_.

Suddenly, she bursts into tears. _Goddammit_. This isn't supposed to happen anymore. She's supposed to be healed. She's supposed to be getting better. Everything is supposed to be good now.

"I'm sorry," she chokes out through sobs that make it hard to breathe. "I'm so sorry, Jay. I just—I wanted...and I can't…" She doesn't know what she's trying to say, but she can't get the words out anyway.

"Shhh, shhh," he whispers, rocking her like a small child. "It was just a nightmare. It's not real, Erin. It's not real."

"I'm sorry," she says again. "I just wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted it to be fun." 

"It is, Erin," he says, kissing her temple. "This doesn't change anything. I'm having a great time. Everything _is_ perfect."

She sniffles hard, rubbing the back of her hand across her nose and burying her face in his T-shirt, already wet with her tears. "You shouldn't have to deal with this on _vacation_ ," she tries again.

"Look at me," Jay says, pulling back and taking her damp, puffy cheeks in his palms. She does so through tear-filled, blurry eyes. "My vacation is not ruined because you had a bad dream. And neither is yours, okay?"

"I thought I was over these," she manages. She doesn't know why she's so upset by this—she's had plenty of nightmares over the past months. The past years. "I thought I was better. It's been a couple weeks, and I just…"

"It just takes time, Erin," Jay soothes, kissing her forehead. "Some days there'll be setbacks. You know that. And yesterday was a rough day. You didn't get much sleep last night, and the plane ride...all the travel…"

She tries to let his words, his logic, soothe her, but it's hard. "Yeah," she whispers. "Okay."

It's just a setback. It just takes time. But she wants everything to be perfect _right now_. Jay deserves that.

Jay gathers her into his arms again and she sinks into his chest, allows his steady heartbeat to calm her own racing heart. She breathes slowly, in and out and in and out, inhaling the scent of him.

"It's almost 5:00," Jay murmurs in her ear eventually. "Wanna drive to the east side of the island and watch the sun rise?"

Tears spring to her eyes again, but this time they're happy ones. She presses her lips to his collarbone, a tiny thank-you for everything he's given her, a small substitute for the real gratitude she'll never be able to express. "Yeah," she whispers. "Let's do it."

-o-o-

Jay is lounging on an inflatable raft on the calm, clear waters of the Caribbean. The sun is warm on his cheeks, the sea deliciously cool against his skin, and Erin's small fingers are laced through his. He's pretty sure this is heaven.

"Let's just stay here forever," he murmurs, dragging the fingers of his free hand along the side of the raft, through the warm water.

"That'd be nice," Erin says languorously. He tilts his head to the side and squints an eye open at her. She looks toned and tan and healthy on her own raft, her skin glowing in the late afternoon sun. She's wearing a stringy black and red bikini that's had him drooling since she removed her sundress earlier in the day, and she looks so hot right now that he's literally aching for her.

He'll wait as long as she needs. But God, he wants her so badly.

Erin laughs, and he realizes that she's watching him stare at her. His mouth is practically open. "You're hot," he says by way of apology with a cheeky grin, which quickly turns into a gasp as her fingers trail gently down his abdomen. He grabs them before she can slide them inside his waistband. "God, Erin," he groans, his heart racing, and she laughs.

"Sorry," she whispers, in a tone that says she isn't sorry at all. "Couldn't help it."

He shifts his weight, angling his raft lower so that more of his body is submerged in the water, and tries to calm down. And then he turns to look at her again. She's smiling, laughing—she looks _happy_.

And he realizes—she's okay. She's not doing this to prove a point or to bury anything. She just—wants him.

Well, two can play at that game then. He waits until she closes her eyes against the sunlight, then rubs his thumb cautiously against her hipbone. She jerks upright, nearly falling into the water, and he laughs, pressing her back against the raft.

He glances around. There's no one on the beach, no one else in the sea. No one around to see them. And it feels dangerous and illicit and _exciting,_ so he tugs at the bow keeping her flimsy bikini bottoms together. "Jay!" she gasps, her eyes widening anxiously, but her cheeks are flushed and her chest is heaving. She doesn't make any move to push him off.

"Yeah?" he murmurs, reaching over for the other tie. She doesn't protest as he releases the strings.

"We're in public," she offers weakly.

"There's no one around," he whispers, sliding his fingers downward along her hipbone. She squirms, barely able to stay on the float. "Keep still," he instructs, rolling onto the side of his own raft and using his free hand to gently hold her down.

She whimpers, and he glances up at her face to make sure she's okay with this. She looks more aroused than he's ever seen her, and warmth floods his chest. He checks anyway, just to be sure. "Okay?"

"Please, Jay," she begs. "God, please." She's practically whimpering, her head lolling back and forth, eyes squeezed shut.

He slides a finger inside her, pressing his thumb oh-so-lightly against her. Within minutes, she's shattering around his hand, gasping for air. He kisses her stomach as she comes down, then carefully re-ties her bikini bottoms.

"You like that?" he whispers slyly, kissing his way up to her sternum. He's barely on his own raft now, frantically treading water, but it's worth it.

"God," she gasps. "I've missed that."

He plies his lips along her collarbone. "Me too." He kisses her lips, then rolls back onto his raft, leaning on his side to watch her. He grabs her hand as she reaches for his shorts. "Later," he says. "This is just for you, okay?"

Her eyebrows knit in concern, and he leans over to kiss her forehead. "It's not because I don't want you," he says. "Believe me, Erin, you should see how bad I want you right now." She laughs and shakes her head. "But let's just start with this, okay?"

She presses her palm to his cheek and meets his eyes, watching him with a mixture of wonder and joy and sadness. "Yeah," she says, leaning forward to kiss him sweetly. "Let's start with this."

-o-o-

Erin's body is still buzzing that evening when they sit down to dinner on a breezy porch, under palm trees and tea lights, steel pan music playing softly in the background. Jay had made her feel so good this afternoon, so _wanted_ , and she's aching to return the favor.

And to have his hands on her again. Today wasn't enough, could never be enough.

But they're in public, at a fancy and way-too-expensive Italian restaurant. So she smiles gratefully at the waiter as he hands her a menu and unfolds her red cloth napkin and settles it over her lap. Jay is watching her again, that sly grin on his face, and she knows he's reading her mind.

Instead of rolling her eyes, she smirks at him. She can torture him just as easily as he can her.

When the waiter comes by to take their drink order, she asks for iced tea. Jay glances at her warily, then orders the same.

"You can get a beer," she says, when the waiter has walked away. "Or wine, whatever. You don't have to...not drink. Not because of me."

Jay looks cornered. "I just—didn't want to…"

"I'm not an alcoholic," she says quietly. "You're not...triggering me by drinking in front of me. I was…using alcohol to bury it all. I just—didn't want to feel it, you know?"

"Yeah," he says, reaching over to run his knuckle along her cheekbone. The light touch feels so good, she nearly closes her eyes. "I get it."

"Good," she says, then grins. Enough of this. "Besides, I want to save those calories for dessert. Do you see that woman's chocolate cake?"

"There's always room for dessert," Jay jokes, scanning his menu. "That's why you have a dessert stomach."

Erin laughs out loud. "A what?"

"A dessert stomach," Jay say, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Everyone has a dessert stomach."

Erin nearly chokes on her water laughing. "In that case," she says, reaching for a roll from the bread basket in the middle of the table. "Let's order appetizers."

-o-o-

They're lying on a hammock under a leafy palm tree, swinging gently in the breeze. Erin's spooning against him, her warm, mostly bare back pressed to his chest. Her hair tickles his chin, and he slides his leg in between hers as his fingers draw lazy patterns on her stomach, occasionally sliding down to trace along the top of her bikini bottom. He watches the waves lap against the shore, leaving trails of white on the glistening golden sand.

They only have three more days here. He doesn't really want to leave, and he wonders if it would be possible to stay in this bubble of sunshine and calm forever.

He thinks Erin might be falling asleep, and he closes his own eyes. Suddenly she says, so quietly he can barely hear her, "Could you still love me if I'm not a cop?"

The question punches him in the gut, but he forces himself to breathe. "Yes," he says, without any hesitation. He keeps drawing figure eights against her skin, refusing to react.

And despite the pain it causes, he's one hundred percent sure of his answer. He's loved Erin at her worst, and he's loved her at her best. He could love her as a cop, or a social worker, or a UPS truck driver. It doesn't matter. All he really wants is for her to be happy and healthy, and to love him back.

"Even though you fell in love with a cop?" she says, her voice small and fragile. "Even if it means I'm not the same person you fell in love with?"

"I fell in love with you," he says, leaning forward to kiss her temple. "Not a cop. You."

She bites her lip and stares out at the waves. He studies her face from the side, wishing he could see her eyes.

"You think—you're not coming back?" he says uncertainly. He can't help himself.

Erin rolls onto her back so he can see her face, but avoids his eyes. "I think for now...I just can't," she says. "I love being a cop. I do. But it's just—all the violence. It's more than what happened to Nadia, although that's part of it. I just feel like...my whole life has been about violence, and I'm so tired of it."

He nods. He understands that. Sometimes he gets tired of all the pain and suffering and fear himself, and he's only just started to realize how much violence and terror featured in Erin's childhood. But—"You know you make a difference, right?" he says softly.

She gives him a small smile. "I know we do. But I just don't think I can do it anymore. I'm not saying not ever, but—I just can't come back now. This job—it gave me so much, but it's cost me so much too. And maybe someday I'll feel differently. I don't know. I just know that I need to step away now."

He tries to muster up a smile. He's so proud of her, and so in awe of her—she's so brave. He's just—gonna miss her. "You're sure?" he says.

She laughs humorlessly. "I'm not sure of anything," she says. "And I'm scared, I guess, of what happens next. What I _do_ next. I'm scared that I can't be anything other than a cop, but...I also know that right now I can't be a cop. Not a good one, and I can't have your back like this. So—this is what I have to do, Jay."

"I know," he says. "And I'm so proud of you for doing it. You know that, right?" He feels like maybe he needs to say it out loud, like maybe she needs to hear it.

She runs her palm along the side of his cheek, the expression on her face a mixture of sadness and serenity. "I'm also really scared about leaving you alone," she says, her voice soft and uncertain and full of pain. "We said we'd always have each other's backs, no matter what, and I'm leaving you alone."

His heart cracks just a little bit more. "As long as you're here with me, like this, you're not leaving me alone," he says, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "I know you've always got my back."

"But out there, on the job…"

"It's gonna be okay," he promises, even though he knows that's a promise he can't really make. "We're together, and everything is going to be fine. Better than fine."

"What if something happens to you?" she whispers, and he has to gulp down the lump that forms in his throat. "Jay, if anything happened to you—or to Hank." She swallows hard, her breathing shaky. "To anyone. I don't think I could handle it, and if I wasn't there, if it was my fault…"

He sits up a bit, pulling her onto his lap. The hammock bucks a bit, but he doesn't worry about it, and she cuddles into his bare chest, her eyelashes tickling his skin. "Stop, okay," he says gently. "Please? You can't do this." She nods rapidly, pushing tears away from her eyes with her thumb. "I can't promise you that nothing will ever happen. You know that. But Erin…" He doesn't even know what to say. He just knows that it would devastate him to imagine her blaming herself if he ever got hurt.

"I know," she says. "I know. Just please promise me that you'll be careful?"

He kisses the top of her head and holds her tightly. "Always."

-o-o-

It's their last night in Anguilla, and Erin can't sleep. She's curled up in a lounge chair on the balcony, listening to the sound of the waves lapping gently against the shore and enjoying the feel of the breeze drifting over her bare legs. It's a little chilly out here, but she'll take it. The air feels too good.

She's both ready and not at all prepared to go back home. To face her new life, to start over. She's excited to begin volunteering at the shelter, and she's looking forward to settling into a routine with Jay, a normal life. She's looking forward to date nights and talking about their days and making each other coffee in the morning.

But there are things she's been putting off facing, and when they get back to Chicago, she knows it's time to confront them. For starters, she needs to go back to her apartment, and that means returning to the place where she and Nadia lived together, where Nadia's room still sits untouched, as if its occupant might return home any minute now. It means cleaning up the blood and the glass that she's certain are still littering the living room, where the crooked Jackson Park cops tried to kill her and Landon.

It means cleaning up the blood on the kitchen floor and facing the fact that she'd tried to end it all. That she'd wanted—attempted—to end her own life. She hasn't even admitted that to Dr. Carraway yet.

Certainly hasn't told Jay.

She knows, with absolute certainty, that Jay loves her, that he'll love her through anything. But sometimes she worries about herself—sometimes love scares her off. All she wants is to be strong enough to stay with him.

"Hey," a voice says gently, startling her. "Sorry."

She shakes her head, settles back into the chair. "It's okay. Did I wake you?"

He shrugs, sliding into the tight space between her body and the armrest and gathering her into his arms. "Just you not being there," he says, pressing his lips to her temple. He's warm and languid and sleepy, and she relaxes against him. "Bad dream?" he murmurs.

"Just couldn't sleep," she says, pressing her ear to his chest. His heart thumps slowly and steadily against her cheek and she realizes—it's only when he's not beside her that her doubts and fears seem to paralyze her. When she's in his arms—that's when she feels like it all just might be okay.

She thinks back on the week they've had—on her first time snorkeling, on the incredible restaurants he's taken her to, on the gorgeous white sand beaches they've spent hours strolling across. She tries to picture that billboard over the highway, and it feels like a faraway, hazy dream. This is her Caribbean now.

She pulls back a little bit, just enough to see his face. He's half asleep, but he blinks his eyes halfway open and smiles. "Better this way," he slurs, letting his eyes drift shut again.

Her heart feels full, overwhelmed with love in a way she's never experienced before, never known was possible. Before she can think too hard about it, she's crashing her lips into his, pulling her to him as if their entire bodies can meld together.

He kisses her back, sliding his tongue into her mouth, his strong hands drifting under her t-shirt. She rolls over onto her back, pulling him on top of her and threading her hands into his hair. "I love you," she whispers, as his lips attack her neck. "I love you so much."

He slows down, taking gentle bites out of her collarbone. She writhes underneath him at the sensation, and reaches for the waistband of his boxers. He grabs her hands before she can get them inside and pins them to the chair, and her heart sinks just the tiniest bit.

Jay pulls back to look her in the eyes, but she doesn't see any regret or sadness or apologies there. Just love, and concern. "I want you so bad," he says breathlessly, and she knows that. She can see it all over his face, can feel it against her thigh. "You promise me this is okay?"

"I promise," she whispers. "Please, Jay. I'm ready. I promise."

"You'll tell me if it gets too much?" he checks.

"Absolutely," she says, fighting to reach his lips with hers. He lets her, then pushes her down gently.

"Okay," he says, grinning at her. He slides down her body, kissing at the patches of skin he can reach around her T-shirt. "But we're doing this my way."

She squirms in frustration. His way means slow, romantic, gentle, and she wants him inside her _now_. But as his talented fingers slip under the waistband of her—well, his, technically—boxer shorts, she decides that maybe she can handle the wait.

-o-o-

He watches her turn the key over and over and over in her right hand, taking deep shaky breaths as she stares at the door. Her other hand is clutched in his, and it's cold and clammy. He squeezes it tightly, running his thumb over her knuckles.

"We don't have to do this, you know," he says. "I can pack up the rest of your stuff. You can keep staying with me."

She nods, and the look on her face—determined and scared and strong—makes his chest ache. "I know," she says. "But I need to do this." She looks at the key in her hand again. "Just—at least clean it up, for now."

Um. "I—I did that already," he admits, and she turns to look at him, confused. "I just cleaned up the kitchen, and the living room. When I came over to get your clothes that day."

Tears fill her eyes and he frowns. Was that the wrong thing to do?

"Sorry," he says quickly. "I just—didn't want you to have to see it like that."

She leans up to kiss him. "Thank you," she whispers.

"Of course," he says, still confused. He wasn't going to leave her apartment like that for her to clean up. Even if scrubbing the dried blood off the kitchen floor had been absolute hell.

She takes a deep breath, then pulls away from him and in one swift, fluid motion, she unlocks the door and pushes it open.

The apartment smells stale and musty. He wants to open a window, let some air and light into the place, but he lets her take the lead. She steps slowly into the living room and looks around, and he isn't sure he wants to know what she's remembering. Or reliving.

After a few minutes, she turns to him and nods. "Um—I thought maybe we could sleep here tonight," she says, steel in her voice. "I just—I need to be able to stay here, and I'm not ready to do it alone."

He wants to say no. Wants to tell her that she should stay with him, that she should live with him forever. He wants to propose, right there, right now. He doesn't ever want to spend another night without her.

But he knows she isn't ready. Knows, maybe, that she needs to live by herself again before she can really live with him.

So he smiles and kisses her forehead. "Of course," he says.

She closes her eyes, and he watches her gathering her strength. "But first, maybe we could…" He forces himself to stand back, to watch her, to let her do this herself. "I'd like to clean out Nadia's room," she says softly. "Could you help me?"

"Yeah," he whispers. "Always."

-o-o-


End file.
